Dreamscape
by Addicted-to-GazettE
Summary: Rio has nightmares every night of the horrible attack in Kalm when she was a small child. In dreams she's saved by an angel assumed to be a figment of her imagination. Now she's all grown up...and finds her angel in the real world. Implied Vincent x Rio
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any of the character depicted in this story. All rights for the** Final Fantasy **series are reserved by**Square Enix.**

So this is an idea I've had since waaay back in 2008. It took me a while but I finally decided why not I'll write it.

That Said I'd like to quickly point out that even as this is written in 1st person POV, Rio is not an OC. She is a civilian that Vincent saved in the first chapter of the game Dirge of Cerberus. I'd also like to point out that you shouldn't have to play the game to know whats going on. I'll explain events when needed.

So...Lets see where this 4 year old venture leads us shall we?

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><p>Chapter I<p>

_Circa 2018,_

_Postdating the return of Sephiroth and the Deepground Invasion of Kalm Village. _

"_The first time I met him it was in my dreams…"_

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><p>Eight o'clock rolls around quiet fast, when one is immersed in work. Turning in my apron, tray, and time stamp, I slip into my jacket, flashing a smile in the direction of my boss as I pass the bar.<p>

"See you, Monday!" I call, swinging open the heavy wooden door. I shiver as the chilly fall air hits my face.

As I step out, the owner's gravelly voice follows after me, "Take care, Rio!" I laugh and promise to do so as I set off for home with a cheery wave over my shoulder.

The red and pink hued sky caught my attention and I pause a moment to take in its beauty. Quickly the warm from the bar faded from my skin as the cold bite of the outdoor temperature dropped. A drafty wind blew through, throwing my hair in my face. Shivering I tuck my scarf over the lower portion of my face, hunch my shoulders up, and make a mental note to bring gloves next time as I shove my hands into my pockets.

The streets are always quiet this late in the evening. I tuck my hands snugly in pockets, admiring the white puffy clouds my breath creates in the air. Glancing around me is a habit, taking in the familiar road in an automatic check for pedestrian traffic. Most people are already home by such an hour, eating their dinner or shooing children in to their baths. I relish the silence and the feeling of having my beloved hometown to myself as I walk towards my neighborhood. It was now early fall, and the leaves had just begun changing color. They merrily littered the ground in bold red gold and green- crunching cheerfully under my flat heeled boots with every other step.

Crunch Crunch Crunch. Each step echoes hauntingly and my heart sinks from the lonely atmosphere as I pass by the towns only inn. Its windows were glowing, and even from the street I can hear muffled laughter from inside. Its sign swung on its bracket above the door creaking loudly. So cheerful. So warm. Yet why do I see a different place? The windows are broken, the door is missing and the cheerful little sign lies in the road smeared with mud. I blink frantically my breath hitching and the vision corrects itself. My pale face is reflected in the pristine window. Wide brown eyes are reflected on the glass. I turn away from those eyes not wanting to look at that pale sad reflection. The letters on the sign were newly painted, but I remembered when they had been faded lost in the dirt. I would always remember.

Ducking my chin further into my scarf I force my frozen feet to move towards home. Ah yes. This town, Kalm, is my home.

The village of Kalm is a seaside town, in the Midgar area, located not far from the city of Midgar that it was named for; well, what's left of that city. Actually, from some points in the village you can see the distant, shadowed outline of the ruins. I'd never been to Midgar before it'd gotten destroyed because at the time of Meteor Fall, I was just nine years old. But my father used to tell me stories about going there when he was a young tradesman; about how it'd been a great, yet terrible city. All attempts to rebuild the once great city had all ended in disaster, and thus people stopped going there except to reminisce. Instead the surviving inhabitants banded together to build another city, off the outskirts of the ruins that they appropriately christened, Edge. Some, though very few, relocated here, to Kalm.

I blow out a gusty sigh, entranced by the shapes my breath form and dance in the wind. I've lived here all my life, and it's a relatively peaceful place. Everyone pretty much knows each other, even if only by passing acquaintance, and if not, we are quick to become acquainted with newcomers. It's a close knit little village, though seeing as it's quickly growing in size, I'm not sure how much longer "little village" will be a fitting descriptor. Over the years the small rural village had begun expanding, becoming more of a town. The sleepy, peaceful atmosphere remained the same as ever, though.

The thing I enjoy most about this place is that no matter how big Kalm may get, it still retained the feeling of a quaintness; With its cottage-esque buildings, each different from the one next to it. Much like the streets I now walked on. The cobblestoned paths of Kalm are not straight; they follow the movement of the hills they'd been built on at their own whimsy. Some narrow, others wide, all with a unique charm.

However, the farther away from the business district I venture, the more my good spirits waver. Though we've recovered greatly from the massacre on the outside, Kalm remained deeply scared on the inside. In this town, the "inside" would be its residential neighborhoods. Pausing at a street corner to look both ways, I make sure to coast is clear before crossing. I concentrate on the ground as I walk, making sure to watch my step so that I didn't trip or stumble into any potholes.

Even now so many years later there are roads spotted with blackened craters. Though construction workers had filled in most of the trouble spots with dirt to prevent people from falling in and getting injured, the surrounding cobblestone remained scorched beyond recognition.

A grim monument to an evil, more terrible time.

Houses remain to be finished, sitting sadly in the setting sun, looking downtrodden with their broken, boarded up windows. Walking slower I run my eyes over the injured buildings with a heavy heart. Some are missing sections of their walls; others have been abandoned completely by owners unwilling to move back. Those are the ones it hurt to look at. Those would be the last to be repaired.

Since my childhood I've always seen this town as a living being. An eccentric, yet regal lady, whom had personality to spare…I didn't like seeing her so battered, so broken and lonely.

Yes…Here on the inside the scars of war remain.

I turn down a backstreet, trying to keep my eyes averted from the beggars that are dotted with children as I quickened my pace. Sadly, even with my eyes on the ground I know what I would have seen if I were to look. So many had suffered, male and female, but it was the children that cut deep. Most were orphans; some were crippled, or had jus been abandoned. In those faces I saw my younger self. So lost and confused- lonely, heartbroken. At least though, I'd had my mother. So I turn my eyes away, force my heart to harden, and my legs to keep moving. I was not able to help them.

They weren't completely without hope. Most would later seek refuge at the church; where they'd find food and warm beds. It was one of the reasons I no longer went there. Seeing it broke my heart too much; reminding me of the days when my own mother had lead me up the chapel steps to get food in harder times.

The quiet town is recovering though it is a slow, painful process that eight years had done little to fix.

Eight years…Had so much time already passed? It seemed like just yesterday that I was eleven years old excited to go to the annual founding festival with my parents. It was during that festival that the attack had happened. I remember laughing, and chatting with my parents as fireworks colored the sky; a parade had weaved through the streets with colorful floats. Strands of wire crowded together along the narrow streets sported cheerfully glowing lanterns, and plenty of games to try your luck at. The smell of frying food, sweets and gun powder from fire crackers filled the air along with the sound of merriment.

Everything had been so beautiful. As I look towards the red horizon I think back on how quickly the dream had become a nightmare. That red color had dyed the cobbles red.

An explosion near the front gates had rent the night shocking the masses. Everyone had stood dumbfounded as the giant ploom of smoke rose and red fire bloomed where fireworks had been moments before. Writhing and evil looking as it climbed towards the vast sky.

Soon after, helicopters had swarmed through the gloom and soldiers descended. The civilian's confusion as soldiers hit the ground and my own fear as these strange men with guns rushed the main square. No…Those men weren't human. They'd been monsters.

They'd opened fire on any, and everyone. I remember my parents telling me to run, dragging me along behind them. People fell like flies around us, as they too tried to escape. Dodging around the unfortunate that had been hit, we ran.

Men and women, both young and old, Children- some younger than I, lay in pools of their own blood. Friends, neighbors, siblings, parents, co-workers, and strangers alike. Whether rich or poor, good or bad; all had died as equals, spread on the cobbled streets of Kalm that night.

The newscast later identified the gunmen as the radical group: Deepground.

Mercilessly they hunted civilians down, in a senseless genocide, like animals!

Purging the impure.

It's not long after that initial moment that my memories begin to blur.

I shudder and hug my jacket closer against my body with shaking fingers, as if to protect myself from the little memories I haven't repressed. Even after hours upon hours of therapy, I still have nightmares of that night, to this day.

The doctors had explained that due to an extreme amount of stress, my brain had gone into shock and blocked off the worst of the events in an attempt to protect itself. Partial Amnesia they called it. Other than that, to both the medical staff and WRO officer's surprise, I came out of the experience unscathed, though I was filthy and had scrapes on my knees.

What I do remember comes in bursts of color and sound; images of fire and the bang of explosions. The screams, though, echo the most vividly in my dreams- Pleas for mercy from the dying and afraid. All are just sensations. I have no concrete memory of what happened beyond the initial attack. The rest I heard about later on the news.

I don't mind not remembering. I see it in the dirty faces of the children, and the defeated visages of the elderly. Besides, having been here for the aftermath had been more than enough.

My memory "restarts" after I'd regained consciousness. I'd sleeping for two solid days in a building that smelt of blood, antiseptic, and burnt flesh.

Apparently during the attack, the original medical clinic had been razed to the ground, so in an effort to still assist those injured, the World Regenesis Organization dispatched a medical team to set up a make-shaft medical facility in an old abandoned warehouse, instead.

As for those who managed to escape, or were saved by the W.R.O officers... Too few were those numbers.

Even though I wasn't injured, they kept me there for several days for "observation".

"Just in case" they said with smiles that didn't reach their weary eyes. Later looking back on the event I figured out it was because they weren't sure whether or not my parents were still alive. I realized the distinction even back them and couldn't blame them for keeping silent. How does one explain that to a traumatized little girl?

After two days of being confined to strict bed rest- that I found utterly ridiculous because I was FINE, thank you- they finally located my parents. My mother was transferred from a different facility across town. When the nurse led me by the hand down rows of cots- the feeling of my heart dropping to the floor, as I spotted my mother, is something I doubt I could ever forget. Amnesia or no.

My mother lay there, still as death and unconscious, with a plastic mask over her mouth to provide oxygen to her lungs. Her face was covered in scratches, and her body was swathed in pristine white bandages. I was assured that she was fine, except for a burn or two and a few minor lacerations that were really just a grazes. I'd sat at her beside solemnly, too shaken to even cry, her icy hand clutched in my smaller, shaking ones.

A few days more days passed before it occurred to my shocked mind, that they'd found my "parents" but I had yet to see my papa.

I already knew, after seeing the remorseful, haunted look in the officer's eyes when I worked up the courage to ask where my father was, what the answer would be.

"He died from fatal injuries," the officer informed me gently, a shadow falling over his features. The man didn't elaborate and I was too afraid of the answer to ask. My world was shattering but still I was unable to cry.

My mother was in a coma for a year before she finally regained consciousness.

Though some might have waited to break the news, I knew no amount of waiting would soften the blow. And so I didn't wait to inform her of my father's death, knowing that the news would hit her harder if delayed until later. With a trembling voice I'd told her simply. "Daddies gone."

The color had drained from her face and she'd immediately gathered me close.

As I had lain in her arms and felt her heart beat under my cheek, I finally felt like I was home. I was safe for the first time since it had all begun. I let a years worth of bottled up pain and fear flow forth to soak her shirt. She'd cried with me, rocking me gently in her arms.

After that she recovered physically but never fully mentally. She faced me with a smile, but everyday I could see the light fade a little more from her eyes. I'm convinced my mother went through the motions of life, only for my sake. She worked hard to support the two of us, and once I was old enough to get a job I worked with her. My mother passed away just two years ago, at the age of forty-four, six days before my twentieth birthday. The Doctors couldn't explain what had caused it. Secretly, I knew the cause was heartbreak.

I didn't blame her for leaving me, and the experience had only made me stronger. Sometimes, though…the loneliness ate at my soul. An aching pain that throbs like a festering wound in your chest. Feeling alone, even when one is surrounded by crowds of people. Some days it hurt more than others. Sometimes it doesn't hurt at all.

Though my mother had left quiet a bit of Gil saved up for me, I haven't touched a single shilling of it. Instead I'd hoarded it away just in case, and lived off what I made as a waitress at a local pub. She'd also left me our small house. Like so many others I hadn't been able to take living amongst the memories. Luckily it had remained one of the few undamaged and so I'd sold it easily, adding the profit to my savings fund. I don't regret the decision. A family from Edge had moved here and bought it. They had two bright eyed little boys that would enjoy it more than me.

In last couple of years, people had begun to travel again. Tourists were slowly bringing the sad, sleepy town of Kalm back to life, visit by visit.

Reaching the turn off to my apartment, I quicken my steps, eager to get home and rest my aching feet. I'm just as eager to be inside when the storm clouds hovering on the horizon reach me. I really have no desire to end up soaked through to the bone. Jogging up the stone steps, I dig in my pockets and purse for my keys as I clear each landing. I'd just pounded up the last flight, when the first ominous rumbled of thunder sounded. I thank God for my luck, as I shove the key in first the lock, then the dead bolt.

Swinging the door shut with a relieved sigh that I'd beat the rain, I toe off my boots and relock the door behind me.

After a brief moment of contemplation I put on the chain for good measure. I don't necessarily live in a bad neighborhood, but why tempt fate? I drop my keys in the pretty little glass bowl, on the in-table that I keep for this purpose. With tired features, I turn to face my apartment. It's more of a loft really, than an apartment.

One large sunny room dyed a pink-ish orange color by the setting sun streaming in through the windows. It gives my scarred and worn wooden flooring, with its threadbare area rugs, an almost polished gleam. A faded blue couch and yellow arm chair stood center stage. Both had seen their fair share of abuse, and were comfier than sin. A low coffee table, littered with junk, sat between the couch and the old television crammed against the wall. The kitchenette, sectioned off to my immediate right by a long counter space, took up about a fourth of the space I called home. The bedroom, every dinky inch of it, was at the back of the place, the only bathroom located adjacent to it through an adjoining door.

It might not be much too some people's standards, but to me it's sanctuary.

Shedding my coat, and scarf, I hang them on the hook by the in-table. Leaving the lights off, I bypass the kitchen and living area, in favor of my bedroom. This room is almost always dark, since I always leave the curtains drawn. I usually only come in here to sleep after all. My footsteps fall silently across the only carpeted floor in the house.

Exhausted I throw my arching self backwards across the mattress and sigh happily as I land with a bounce and creak. The cheerful yellow and pink checkered comforter I'd had since I was a baby, smelled of home and sunflowers. Rolling onto my stomach, I stretch one arm across the cotton expanse, to grab hold of something soft and plush.

I bury my face in the fabric of my favorite pillow and exhale deeply, letting all the tension in my body drain away with the action. Ever since I'd gotten it, it has served faithfully as a security blanket of sorts. Sure, it might sound odd for a twenty something year old woman to have a security pillow, but I never let it out of my sight when I go to sleep. It helps me sleep through the worst of my nightmares.

There's a story behind this bundle of soft fabric.

I'd bought it, shortly after I'd turned fourteen. Back then, my mom had dragged me to a fabric store for more thread and I'd spotted it on a shelf. I knew the moment I saw it that I had to have it. I'd had an almost desperate need to hold it tightly, fill my chest and proceeded to beg my mom to buy it. There was nothing special about it really. It was just an average little plush pillow with a red covering.

I think it was more the color than the actual pillow that stole my heart. The Crimson shade of red, since the events eight years ago, has a calming effect over me. One would think after my traumatic experience as a child that I'd associate the color automatically with blood and be adverse to it. However, it was just the opposite. Neither my mother nor the therapists I'd seen had ever been able to figure out my attachment to the color…Though I had a sneaking suspicion I had never voiced out loud, afraid they'd think I was hallucinating.

You see after they put me on medication for night terrors, an angel had begun to appear.

Silly I know, but it's true. It started several weeks after being discharged from the clinic with my mom. Every night I began having dreams that woke me up, screaming and in tears. I would shake uncontrollably, and in general I was inconsolable. My mother often tried to get me to talk to her about them, but half the time I was either too scared to speak or didn't remember what happened long enough to explain. I eventually reached the point where I'd hurt myself in small ways to stay awake, to scared of what transpired in my hellish nightmares that I couldn't remember. My mother dragged me to see a specialist after that.

Basically the doctors told me that because of my amnesia, while my brain is in the REM cycle of sleep my suppressed memories are resurfacing in the form of fragmented dreams. To which my brain, struggling to protect its self again, would force my body into wakefulness, with a rush of adrenaline: Thus the clutching sensation of fear, shortness of breath, and trembling. Naturally once conscious, my memories would recede and I'd forget what transpired while I was asleep.

I thought the guy sounded like a quack and was basically telling me what in layman's terms is referred to as 'bad dreams', but to appease my mother I'd obediently taken the medicine he prescribed. After that I stopped waking up screaming, but I still had the dreams… sometimes I'd remember pieces of them, but the events changed every time, some just subtly, while others where completely different. All except one scene; that one is always the same.

In this scene I'm saved by an angel in red.

Even I realize how ridiculous this sounds. To play the devils advocate, let's say an angel did by chance, just happen to drop by and save me, why would they be wearing crimson clothing? I wasn't even sure if my angel had actually been there or if it'd been my mind trying to conjure up a 'hero figure' to make the nightmares less scary when I was younger.

None-the-less, the color became a comfort.

Rolling to my side on the wide bed, I curl into my self still clutching my pillow, gently petting the fabric with heavy fingers. I let my eyes drift shut and lay listening to thunder rumble in the distance, drawing ever nearer.

The coo-coo clock on my bedroom wall ticked in time with each breathe I took. My heartbeat slowed and I began to feel drowsy; dozing in and out of consciousness, trying to work up the will to get out of bed, grab a shower and eat before turning in for the night. It was so warm and comfortable though. Just a few minutes wouldn't hurt right? I'd take a cat nap, and then I would get up and go about the rest of my night. Just a few minutes….

I drop into darkness, lost to dreams, and completely unaware of how much my life will once again change in a few short hours.

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><p><em>TBC<em>...

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><p>Edit 2013: Okay! So I said I was going to edit a few things in this chapter but...other than a total deletion and rewriting I figure I'm just going to see where this goes and make small changes. It just needs a little polish here and there.<p>

So there you have chapter one! Hope you all enjoyed it so far and arent too confused!

If you see any mistakes, please feel free to point them out for me. After all I am only one human and can't catch everyone, no matter how many times I comb the writing.

Any questions or opinions can be reviewed and I'll be sure to answer them if I can.

Till next time!

Reviews fuel an Authors love for writing! ; )


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any of the character depicted in this story. All rights for the **Final Fantasy** series are reserved by**Square Enix.**

A shout out of eternal gratitude and love to my wonderful beta TayMor. You are a goddess and a dream to work with dearie. *insert hearts and muwahs here*

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><p>Chapter II<p>

"...when I saw him again he was bleeding..."

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><p>I jolt awake, panting for breath and shivering. Opening my eyes groggily, I blink a few times, trying to force them to adjust to the pitch blackness of my bedroom. I lay stiffly on the bed, too afraid to move, looking for the demons that haunted my dreams.<p>

Yet another nightmare.

Slowly furniture comes into focus. The dresser is the first thing I catch from my angle on the bed. When it becomes apparent that I am indeed alone in the room, my heart slows gradually and I let tensed muscles relax. I'm fine. I'm safe. I won't be... eaten... or something equally unsavory. No death no foul.

I continue to sprawl on my side, pillow hugged to my chest for comfort, staring blearily at the curtains covering the window by my bed. While I am staring blearily, it is actually because the curtain looks suspiciously like something else altogether, and I am not too eager to look away just in case it is... even though I know it isn't. When I'm sure the curtains aren't hiding any fuzzy...somethings...I calm further.

Since pinkish light no longer glows from behind said curtains, I feel it's safe to assume that the sun has been set for quite some time. Yawning, I stretch languidly before letting my limbs go limp again.

I listen still half asleep to the sound of water lashing against the glass and pitter-pattering on the roof. I feel completely boneless and relaxed, even though I'm a little sick of being alone on rainy nights just like these. Maybe I should invest in a dog...dogs are nice right?

It is most definitely a wondrous feeling as the long used to feeling of panic recedes. Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I flop over to my back and scrub slightly numb hands over my face. It's been awhile since they'd been quite that vivid, the nightmares I mean.

Visions crowd behind my closed eyelids.

Beast soldiers prowling- hideously disfigured forms no longer human, creeping on all fours with malicious grins on their mutilated faces. Fire burning in the streets. Kind carmine eyes and a warm gloved hand held out towards me.

With a shudder I shake the cobwebs out of my head and speak my magic spell firmly into the shadowed quiet of my room.

"Close your eyes. Forget the pain. Be like the sun and shine through the rain." I took a deep breath. "It was just a dream, Rio." I whisper into the darkness, hands still pressed to my eyelids "None of its real, just a silly nightmare."

I know all too well that most of it had probably in fact taken place, but it's not like anyone is forcing me to admit it.

Refusing to lay in bed and obsess over my dreams, I toss my pillow towards my headboard. Pushing my rebelling body into a sitting position, I roll the evilly stiff muscles in my shoulders. Rubbing at the kinks in my neck, I squint through the darkness at the digital clock face on the nightstand: 3:45 am.

Ugh. A few minute cat nap seems to have turned into almost seven hours of solid sleep. Scowling at my severe lack of discipline, I get to my feet quickly…perhaps, a little too quickly. The room spins drunkenly and I sink back to the bed with a groan, making a mental note to myself. Never stand up that fast. It took a minute for my spinning head to stop hating me.

Much slower this time, I gain my feet and move cautiously across the short distance between my bed and the dark oak dresser. I pull open a drawer and sort through the contents for a pair of PJ's.

I want a shower…more like need a shower.

My work uniform is not only hopelessly wrinkled but was sticking to my skin oddly in places where I'd perspired during sleep. Of all the things I hate about my nightmares, the whole waking up covered in a cold sweat part was towards the very top of a long list.

I decide on a pair of warm flannels in deference to the cool temperature of the room.

Stumbling into the bathroom I'm more than ready for an early morning shower. Maybe the semi cold water would help make me more aware. Shutting the door behind me, I flip the lock before dropping my change of clothes on the closed toilet lid.

Locking the bathroom door while I bathe is an odd habit I've developed. Call it paranoia, but I am unable to relax while being naked in a room that had an unlocked door. Some may think it unnecessary, since I never have people over, but I see it as another invisible scar left behind from the invasion.

Shucking off my white blouse, and black slacks, I bundle them up with my under things to shove in the hamper. Turning on the water I step under the spray, gasping and dancing out of the way as the icy water touched my skin. That woke me up. Without a doubt.

I wait shuddering in the cold, as it warms to a temperature that doesn't set my teeth on edge, before going about my bathing ritual.

I don't ever take long. Rather than luxuriate under warm water as some people do, I rather prefer to get in, get clean, and get out. I don't like remaining vulnerable for too long.

Soon as I deem my body and hair clean enough, I shut the water off and reach for one of the fluffy towels I keep handy on the wall mounted rack.

Shivering, as I towel off, I bundle quickly into my clean clothes. Feeling better now covered, I unlock the door and ease out of the room. Thunder rumbles outside as I pad out into the living room, hair still wrapped in a towel.

At the first contact of my bare feet against the chilly wood, I blanch.

In my rush towards my bed earlier, not only had I not turned the lights off- I'd forgotten to turn on the heater. As a result the inside temperature matched the outside one. It was made even colder by the rain.

Rubbing my arms, I pick my way across the cold floor and attack the controls.

I sigh in relief as the old thing clanked to life, and blew hot air at me. It feels good enough that I don't even give the burnt smell it gave off as the metal coils inside began glowing a bright orange a second thought. I luxuriate for a moment, before moving to turn on the lights.

They flicker on without any trouble, chasing away the shadows cast around the room. It makes me relax further, as I can now rest assured that nothing lurks in darkened corners.

Paranoia, thy name is Rio.

Satisfied that I now have sufficient lighting, and that the chill in my humble abode was quickly dissipating, I make a beeline for the fridge. I open it, not too anxious to stand too long in front of the chilly air it releases.

The inside offers cold sodas, two tupperware containers of rice, miscellaneous vegetables, and a carton of milk, not counting all the different sauces on the door.

Hm…I could probably make vegetable stir-fry… or make use of the cup ramen in the cabinet. Sure it wasn't healthy, but it was quick to make and tasted good. After working a double shift at the pub, I am not really up to doing much else.

I close the fridge and began heating a pitcher of water in the microwave. I'll kill two birds with one stone. I can use the heated water for instant tea and the noodles.

Now we play the waiting game.

I pull the towel from my head to begin methodically attacking strands of hair; watching the rain outside from the window above my sink.

The sky outside is an inky black abyss, with little to no visibility. The rain is providing a second blanket of blurriness; guaranteeing dangerous travel conditions for anyone stupid enough to want to navigate in this weather.

I hope no one's stranded out there.

The chances of this are slim. Due to the late hour all the residents should be safely inside, and unlike myself are most likely happily asleep in their beds.

The only people that could be legitimately out in such whether would be travelers and even that is unlikely due to the season. Not a lot of people travel here in the fall to winter months, due to the fact that the Midgar area was surrounded by mountains on all sides but one. Braving the mountains this time of year was only for the experienced or stupid. Sure there is a pass, but even that is treacherous in the wrong conditions.

The only other way to get here would be by boat. And in this weather…

Honestly, around this time of year, we only get visitors from Edge, and even that was a rare occurrence this late in the season. The surrounding rocky canyons were crawling with guard hounds, and god knew what else. Those monsters are not to be taken lightly.

Travel in our world is a dangerous thing.

The microwave dings loudly in the quiet, pulling me from my internal musings.

Dropping the towel over a barstool, I pull the pitcher out.

First into the Styrofoam noodle cup before using the rest in a porcelain mug, I distribute the steaming water, careful not to spill any and burn myself. I grab a pair of chopsticks and a tea bag, and head towards the couch.

Plopping down, I free my hands to hunt for the remote. The thing had burrowed somewhere in the cushions. I slide my hands between the cushions as I search for the remote, but I bring up mostly loose change and lint. Surprising, considering I am the only one that uses this couch, but then that's the thing about couches. The cushions always have something between them. I finally locate the remote and lean back with a contented sigh.

Pulling the purple throw from the back of the couch I tuck my legs under the soft material, push the power button on the remote, before bobbing the tea bag into my cup.

The box was old so it would take a few minutes for the screen to pop up. Blowing across the steaming liquid, I take a tentative sip and wait. Not too bad for instant.

"—I'm coming to you from Edge City. Behind me is a local street, in sector 7, where there have been numerous-"

I listen with half an ear to the cycling news report as I grab for my noodles.

A pretty blonde reporter pops up on the screen, her hair swept back in a bun and her blue eyes serious. She gravely reports about some riot happening in Edge.

I snort into my dinner and gobble up noodles.

There's ALWAYS something going on in our world. Can't we all simply get along, and go a nice long twenty some year gap without something happening?

I watch as the reporter gestures gracefully with one hand. From what I am getting from the woman's high-pitched voice, it doesn't seem half as serious as she is making it out to be.

It sounds far more like a bunch of kids who had too much time on their hands breaking windows, than a riot. Sure, vandalism isn't something that should be condoned, but making it out to be riots?

Grunting into my tea, I flip the channel, losing interest in the entire matter.

I don't want to hear about the worlds problems at the moment.

Channel surfing for a good five minutes only reveals that a depressing lack of anything even remotely interesting is on.

Not wanting to go back to channel 7 news, I finally settle on a channel broadcasting re-runs of some old soap opera.

Nothing like cup ramen, tea, and bad soap operas at almost four in the morning.

I watch the drama play out on the screen and after ten minutes of confusion I am finally starting to get the gist of what was going on. Luckily soap operas are easy to understand. One word. Drama.

It seems that Morgan, who is madly in love with Fernando, is about to discover some life altering secret about her dead parents- Oh boy.

However, before this epic and mind boggling drama can play out, lightning flashes outside followed quickly by a crack of thunder. Morgan's tearful brown eyes disappear from the screen and the room plunges into darkness.

It seems nature has other plans for our heroine. Either that or the power didn't want the brunette's happiness as much as she did. Sighing into the dregs of my dinner, I sink back into the cushions, and take a sip of tea. Nothing much to do by this point, but sit in the dark and wait for the backup generator to kick on. For the umpteenth time tonight I am very aware of my lack of companions.

Sadly it doesn't seem like the faulty machinery is going to come alive anytime soon. I sigh my regret and stand, tea mug still in hand. I leave the trash to pick up later, resigned to going back to bed. What a way to start my weekend. I at least want one more cup.

With the throw hanging from my shoulders, I venture across the dark room, thankful at least that my heater ran without power.

Just as I pass one of the windows, I happen to glance absent-mindedly at the glass, expecting to see rain and darkness.

Which is of course when I get what I least expect.

In this case it appears, seemingly of thin air, merging out from the dank shadows.

Lightning flashes throwing the room into sharp relief, silhouetting the tall frame on the other side of the glass.

The mug slides from my suddenly limp fingers and breaks with a crash on the floor in time with the next crack of thunder.

My jaw slackens and a scream catches in my throat. I stand in shocked silence catching a brief glimpse of glowing red irises before the figure sinks out of sight. Covering my lips with shaking hands, I stare transfixed at the place the creature had stood moments before.

My heart slams a staccato beat against my ribs. It's the only sound I can hear besides the ringing present in my ears. Shaky breaths leave my lips in rasping gasps that hurt my chest and throat. I realize vaguely that I'm going into shock.

Legs numb, my shaking knees crumple and I sink to the ground with a thump. Shards of porcelain dig uncomfortably into my skin and still I can't look away from the now empty window.

I sit there in silence, willing my heartbeat to slow and my breathing to even out. My legs ache from their odd positioning, and still I can't work up the will to move.

I catch my reflection in the glass. Skin bone white, hazel eyes the size of golf balls, and reddish brown hair hung in tangled hanks. Windows aren't the most flattering of mirrors. Then it hits me.

I was reflected in my fourth story window. This brings to mind, a little belatedly, the question of how it was even possible for someone to be outside my window.

I crawl across the distance to the window in record time.

Cupping my hands against the glass I peer out into the darkness.

The fire escape gleams wetly back at me. Hands falling down to grasp the sill, I let out a shaky half hysterical laugh. Honest to god, for a moment I'd thought there had been a demon flying outside my window. I drop my head weakly onto my hands and giggled again. But seriously what had that person been doing on my fire escape?

Maybe it was just my overactive imagination? It wouldn't be the first time. And I doubt it is the last.

Shaking my head, I decide that after a scare like that I probably won't be sleeping tonight. It seems as good a time as any to catch up on my reading by flashlight.

Shifting I rearrange the slipping blanket and climb partially to my feet, still gazing out the window suspiciously, not entirely convinced I'd made it up. When another flash of lightning cuts across the sky, I shriek loudly and fall flat on my butt.

Nope. Definitely not a figment of fairytales and a correction must be made: What was that person still doing on my fire escape?

Whimpering in distress I bury my hands in my hair. Police… I should call the police. Unfortunately my generator's a piece of crap and has yet to kick back on. No power, no phone.

This seems kinda bad, doesn't it? Hadn't I seen a movie like this once? It was a bad horror film. We have all the pieces: the defenseless woman, loss of power, and some psycho stalker lurking outside the house. I shudder, flinching when thunder crashes outside vibrating the wall at my back.

I shouldn't have gotten out of bed.

Chewing my lower lip nervously, I try to think: what does one do in a situation like this? My mind is reeling so swiftly that coming up with anything but one central thought is impossible. I have a weirdo, a potentially dangerous weirdo, outside on the fire escape.

My eyes narrow. Now that I think about it, from that brief glance it'd appeared that whoever it was, had been collapsed on their side. Furrowing my eyebrows in confusion, I cautiously crawl to my knees and peeked back out the window.

A whimper leaves my throat. Yep. Whoever, or whatever it is, remained to torment me. Whoever it is, rested on their side with their back to the window. Only…the positioning is more sprawled- like they'd collapsed rather than laid down.

Either way it doesn't appear to be going somewhere anytime soon. Do people normally sprawl on random women's fire escapes? I think not.

Great, so much for catching up on my reading. There is no way I'll be able to concentrate with a red eyed, big….something chilling on my fire escape.

This, to my malfunctioning brain, leaves only one option.

"Don't go anywhere," I mutter at my intruder feeling my way over to the kitchen. I dig through several drawers for a flash light. I'd need it to see.

"I know I kept on in here somewhere…aha!"

Brandishing the found object I smile in triumph. It was a heavy duty, metal maglight. If all else fails I can use it as a blunt force object.

Inching my window open slowly, I poke the power switch and train the light beam on my uninvited visitor.

"Hello?" I call tentatively, "Um…Sir? You can't sleep there."

At least, I assume it's a sir. You don't see many women that tall, though I know they exist.

Then again…the hair looks pretty long from the back. I ruthlessly cut off that unproductive line of thought. Now is not the time to hover in the window inwardly debating over the gender of my rather large problem!

However I can't stop my eyes from roaming over the figure on the ground.

Not much was distinguishable, thanks to a rather tattered cloak dwarfing his body. All I can clearly see are his boots…which honestly are weird enough on their own.

The boots themselves aren't what strike me as odd; they're just normal black and leather footwear. It is more the pointed gold plates over the shoes that freak me out just a bit.

They remind me of the solleret armor ancient knights used to wear on their shoes to protect their feet. With a shake of my head I put aside the musings on his odd choice of footwear and try again to rouse the man from his sleep.

"Hello?" I stick my head out the window and call again in an attempt to be heard over the rain. "Mister!"

I'm tempted to yell louder, hesitating only because of the late hour, quiet sure I'd anger quite a few individuals by yelling at strange men in the early hours of the morning.

Sadly I can think of only one other thing to wake the man up.

It is because of the above point that I do the second stupidest thing that night. I have no other excuse for my own stupidity, beyond a rather misguided sense of curiosity.

Swinging one leg over the sill, I climb, more like scramble, out using one hand for balance while the other holds the flashlight steady. The metal is cold, wet, and slippery under my bare feet. The overhang does little to divert the water, leaving me soaked in record time. I really need to think these things out better.

Now wet and more than a little disgruntled, I use the wall for a prop, and pick my way carefully around the man's long legs. I allow myself to feel a bit impressed; he has to be six feet tall at least. Standing at barely five foot three on a good day, I can't help but be a bit jealous. I stop next to the head of the object of my curiosity and gently nudge him with one bare toe.

"Sir? Are you awake?" I am starting to feel like a broken record. Nudging him again serve no results other than I catch a glimpse of black leather and straps. I think again how odd his attire is.

At this close vantage point I can see more detail on the cloak and I honestly think he should buy a new one. It is a bit bedraggled. Though…the garment strikes a chord somewhere in my mind. Have I seen it before?

Shrugging off the odd sense of déjà-vu, I go back to my mission of waking the bum.

I nudge him again, this time harder. A pained grunt leaves my dark colored lump, and I flinch involuntarily. Maybe this isn't such a good idea. It isn't too late to go back inside and forget the man was out here. I begin to turn but stop biting my abused lower lip once more.

Damn my curiosity anyway. Add to that the fact that I will probably never forgive myself if he was injured and ultimately died or something.

Leaning over I try to see his face but am blocked by hair…and lots of it.

"Dear god, you have the thickest hair I've ever seen," I mutter with another tinge of envy.

I bet it is sickly pretty when dry too. And soft.

As it was, the strands are stuck together in wet clumps and are glued to his face. They're doing a rather fine job obscuring his features from view.

Standing by the man's side in the pouring rain I am slowly growing less and less apprehensive and more worried. Cue the thoughts of him possibly being injured.

No longer as wary as I was before, since the man seems completely out of it, my clouded mind is starting to take note of facts overlooked before. If he is merely asleep, like I'd first assumed, why would he not seek shelter from the rain? Also wouldn't he have woken by now with all the racket I was making?

Crouching down I gently touch the man's cheek to brush some of the hair away. I quickly jerk it back as if scorched. His skin is hot the touch, which, considering how I am now shivering from the cold, can only mean one thing. He was burning up from a fever.

"Oi, Mister!" I put the flashlight in my mouth in a display of dexterity, deciding to try and see if shaking him awake would produce better results.

When my hand brushes his shoulder, however, it came away wet, which wasn't too alarming, but sticky was. I stare in shock at the warm red fluid as the water begins to dilute the color and wash it away.

He is bleeding, and quite a bit at that.

Panicking now, I pull the flashlight from my mouth and I lean over him- voice becoming urgent as the rain pounds down on the two of us.

"You're hurt!" I state the obvious in a moment of panic. "Mister, can you hear me? You have to get up! You'll bleed to death out here!"

This got a better response. He stirs marginally, black lashes fluttering before they open to half mast. A shiver of recognition shoots down my spine as I meet those eyes up close.

Where have I see you before? My head begins to hurt marginally but I shake it off.

"That's right! Good! Now, you have to get up!"

The smell of blood on him at this range was overwhelming, even when partially smothered by the muggy smell of the rain. My stomach rolls sickly, but I push off the nausea with determination- now is not the time to be a wuss!

He starts to shift and I move away quickly, gripping my flashlight like a lifeline. I watch, morbidly fascinated as he struggles up onto all fours, and at this range I can see his arms tremble with the effort of overtaxing his sick and wounded body. He moves to a kneeling position, grasping the rail in front of him, probably for balance. My eyes are drawn to the gleam of metal on that hand. The fingers are long and covered with a taloned gauntlet.

I shudder and begin questioning my own sanity for letting my cat like curiosity lure me out here.

Warily I follow his movements as the man struggles to his feet. I'm tempted to help him, since he is injured, but the sight of the gleaming metal on his hand, as well as the knowledge he could have more weapons hidden from sight, keeps me firmly where I am crouched.

However, when he sways drunkenly, I spring to my feet and I fail to notice dropping the flashlight in my haste to catch his arm. I really am nowhere near keen on seeing first hand what a four story drop from a building could do to the human body.

He tenses as soon as I touch him, and tries to move away, obviously averse to being handled. I tighten my grip stubbornly and shift so that I am braced to help support his weight. My eyes cloud with concern. While I'd thought his face was warm, the rest of him was even worse; burning hot, even though the leather under my palms.

"Careful," I whisper trying to make my tone as consoling as possible, though I am unable to completely hide the trembling in my voice. Though my natural maternal instincts want to help this man, I have no idea who he is or even what he's capable of.

Luckily the fever seems to have weakened him considerably; Which as I shift to grip his bicep to steady the drunken swaying I decide is a VERY good thing. The man has quite a bit of muscle tone under all that fabric. I shudder at the thought of what he could do to me if not incapacitated. Those thoughts lead to me seriously re-think my crazy mission to help him…until I meet his eyes again.

Though they are guarded and currently glaring daggers at me, I don't sense any outright hostility. No killing intent, if you will. His face is tense yes, but it's obvious he's in a lot of pain. My heart aches with sympathy and I decide then that since I've come this far, I might as well skip happily the rest of the way to the gallows. Figuratively speaking of course.

"Let's get you inside," I urge him, trying to lead him by the arm back towards the still open window, but he won't budge.

I turn, studying his rigid posture.

Now I can't really read his expression because what isn't shadowed by the darkness is hidden behind a high, buckled collar.

Those eyes though, they cut through the shadows, burning a bright red that watched me with an unwavering intensity only dimmed by pain and fever.

He is dripping wet, and his other hand that I am not holding captive, still grips the railing tightly. The gold metal gleamed wetly. I shuddered slightly but tried to hide it behind a bright forced smile

"You'll only get sicker out in the rain. I can tend your injuries too." His eyelids lower slightly hiding his thoughts from me, and I wonder once again what the hell had come over me.

This man seems to be even more paranoid of strangers than I am. What are the chances of me being able to convince him to let me help him?

I am cold, wet, and scared- but still I have an almost desperate need to lend this wounded human being a helping hand. I meet his eyes, no longer trying to hide the fact that I was scared, cold, and quite miserable.

"Please, let me help you." I whisper shakily, my tone pleading. My breath mists in the air between us as the silence draws out to an unbearable level.

Luckily, something in my face must have convinced the man for his grip on the rail slackened and he let me drag him towards the window. I gently tighten my hold on his arm in a show of gratitude. As I lead him, I slightly began to pray.

Please don't make me regret this.

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><p><em>TBC...<em>

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><p>Edited as of 2013<p>

So, I'm not entirely sure I like this chapter. I don't think it's bad per se... maybe its the fast pace? This wasn't originally supposed to be a chapter story but a oneshot that was told in bits and pieces. Flashes from Rio's view, on an overview like level. However, when I started writing...it seemed this little piece had other plans.

Ah, such is life

Anyways, What do you all think? Too fast? Too Rambling? Not enough detail? Too much Detail? Tell me and I'll do my best to fix what seems off.

_Reviews fuel a writers love for writing! ; )_


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any of the character depicted in this story. All rights for the **Final Fantasy** series are reserved by**Square Enix.**

A shout out of eternal gratitude and love to my wonderful beta TayMor. You are a goddess and a dream to work with dearie. 3

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><p>Chapter III<p>

"…a stranger in red, battered and broken…"

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><p>Getting him through the window involves lots of heaving and almost slipping on my part.<p>

I go first, to help guide his injured and bleeding self over the sill. This is tons fun.

Word of advice: Hauling an injured six foot something man's body into your apartment through a tiny hole? Don't do it.

It's not only hard, I'm pretty sure I've made a few of his wounds worse by total accident.

Needless to say getting him inside isn't a fun adventure at all and after I succeed, he almost collapses right there under the window.

Gasping in surprise I reach out quickly to catch him. Wrapping my arms around his waist I end up standing there in an odd parody of an embrace and he still almost goes down…only this time he almost takes me with him. I thank whoever was watching over me at the moment that I somehow manage to keep the two of us upright.

Whimpering slightly, I shift my slipping grip and I silently pray we don't tip. I doubt very much, that I'd be able to get him up again. The man's heavy, and though he's helping somewhat to support his own weight, he's barely conscious as it is; I really don't need to drop and knock him the rest of the way out.

After taking a moment to make sure I wasn't going to fall on my butt, I shift, and tossing his arm over my shoulder for support, I begin half dragging, half leading the injured fire escape stalker towards my bedroom. My knees shake under the pressure.

Normally, I'd just take him to the couch, but I happen to enjoy the fabric being unstained by copious amounts of blood, thank you. So I decide my beds the better option out of the very limited places to dump his long frame on. At least that I could strip and wash.

Speaking of his long frame…I'm finding it marginally difficult to concentrate both on not buckling under his weight and on where we are walking in the dark.

Dear god why is he so heavy?

I know he's a guy and all, not to mention he towers a good six inches or more over me, but he's a bit on the thin side; shouldn't he be lighter?

Then again, as I'd first observed when I grabbed his arm earlier, aided by the fact that he's now practically plastered against me, he has quite a bit of muscle tone. Is that what makes him so damn heavy? When I think of it that way it's not really surprising that I'm having so much trouble. The only other excuse I can think of is that I'm really that out of shape.

I prefer the first thought to the latter…for more than one reason.

Stupid Mr. Muscles.

My grumbles are halted as I almost trip thanks to one of my own throw rugs. Grunting, I curse softly and do my best not fall flat on my face. I haul his arm farther over my shoulder and continue my trek across the apartment.

Never has the place felt larger.

After much struggle I manage to haul the two of us to the doorway leading to my bedroom. My queen-sized bed beckons from against the far wall. Just another few more steps and mission accomplished!

I nearly cry at the thought of relieving my aching body of its heavy burden. If I come out of this fiasco without any pulled muscles I'm not sure if it'll be considered it a job well done, or just a miracle.

When I try to drag us both over the threshold and, ergo, into the room, he protests. It seems my out of it guest apparently wasn't as out of it as I'd first thought. I halt, glaring accusingly at the single arm he braces against the jamb, not sure how to feel about the fact that with just one arm he could stop my progress, even when half dead.

I'm insulted, I think. Pretty sure it's highly offending to be thwarted with such ease. Though I'm also pretty sure the insult was unintentional on his part…at least it better be. I tug pointedly but he doesn't budge an inch. Grumbling once more, I throw him an aggravated look.

"You got a better idea? You're not bleeding on my couch, and the floor is out of the question."

I wait impatiently as he weighs his options. I'm tempted to tap my foot at him, but refrain for the simple fact that it will probably send the two of us sprawling. On the bright side, it would suddenly open the bedroom floor as an option to leave him.

The carpet would be a lot softer to land on that the wood planks at least. I'm just beginning to go over my options of what I had at hand to tend his wounds, when he finally caves. His arm relaxes slowly, showing he's still hesitant to give in. I honestly don't know what his deal is. It's not like I'll throw him on the bed and kill him. I snort out loud. Not likely after going to all this trouble.

Though with his stubbornness, the temptation was more than there, well, at least in part.

It takes a bit of sweat, a few stubbed toes, and some tears but finally, I make it.

Gently I help him lower to the bed - after pulling my quilt off. The under blankets and sheets I can replace. That quilt was my favorite and thus its sentimental value made it priceless; I don't need him bleeding all over the thick fabric.

I stand back and watch while he shifts his weight on the bed before resting his head on my pillows. His hair fans over my pale purple sheets, and he shuts his eyes tightly in pain. He makes quite a sight, one to which I find myself at a loss. Now what do I do?

Since he was all settled on the soft mattress, I make my temporary escape.

Shutting the door behind me, I lean weakly against it staring blindly into the dark room. Lightning flickered and thunder rumbled. I jolt and mentally give myself a shake.

I don't have the luxury of standing around like a dimwit. I have a patient to see to. A half dead, very big, soaking wet patient. I briefly hope that he's not already up for biting the big one. I whimper at the thought of some strange man dying in my bed.

Trying to banish the skulls and crossbones, I begin to move with purpose. I should probably stop whatever bleeding there is and bring down his fever first.

Fever would require a cooling element, the bleeding bandages, and I'd need an alternate light source.

I pad over across the cold wood to the kitchen sink. Numbly I turn the tap, watching the faucet sputter before it lets the water flow. Grabbing a clean bowl from the strainer, I shove it under icy flow and grab a washcloth to use. I don't keep any ice packs.

While the tap fills the bowl I look in the over-hanging cabinets for candles. They won't be much but they'll help. I unearth three green ones that have seen better days. They'll have to do. Turning off the water, I grab the bowl in one hand, carrying the candles tucked in the other arm.

I proceed back to the bedroom carefully, trying not to slosh any over the side of the bowl as I walk. It'll just be one more mess I'll have to clean up later, and I have enough to do as it is.

I enter the pitch black bedroom, sighing in relief that he is still on my bed. To be honest, I'd half expected him to be gone out the window or something when I got back; he seemed the type to flee when no one was looking.

Depositing my armload on the side table, I perch on the edge of the bed. Dipping a cloth in the water, my skin prickles and shivers as the icy temperature burned.

Brushing strands of the long black fringe aside, I hesitate at seeing the red head wrap before reaching to untie it slowly, keeping a wary eye on the man's face as I do so. He doesn't seem to care one way or the other, black lashes brushing his cheek bones as he breathed raggedly, but still erring on the edge of caution is always a good thing.

Folding the headband up, I discard it on the nightstand and replace it with the cooled cloth. His lashes flutter but they remain shut.

Swallowing, I stare at his clothes. I won't be able to find any of his wounds with them in the way. My fingers twist themselves in my lap. I'm not looking forward to this part. I don't want to strip some man nearly naked on my bed. It's not only an invasion of privacy, but horribly awkward as well … but it needs to be done.

Finally, I decide to just get it over with. Shifting, I awkwardly ask permission first.

"Sir?" He doesn't move but I forge on bravely. "I um… I have to check for your wounds… so… that… er..." His vibrant eyes open half mast and he nods almost imperceptibly; a silent concession to proceed. I blush hotly in embarrassment and whisper hoarsely, "I'm sorry."

When I'd first made the decision to bring him inside to help him, it hadn't occurred to me that I'd have to undress him to do so. I don't usually think things through very well.

Not that I mind really, it being a good cause and all, but from the little I'm getting of this man's personality, he's a pretty private person. I blow out a breath, and tell myself I am helping him with his well being in mind, so I shouldn't feel bad.

But I do.

Hands steady, I reach and pull at the fastenings on his cloak. His eyes drift shut as I do so, his breathing still uneven, and brow furrowed in pain. My heart aches for him as I brush the now open cloak to his sides.

One obstacle down.

Next is his top. It buckles just like his cloak so I don't have much trouble there. Now comes the tricky part. Wishing I had a proper light to do this, well... properly - I lean in and peel the fabric back slowly.

It sticks against his left side and right shoulder.

I pause and light the candles with the pack of matches I'd grabbed out of a drawer on the way in here. The wick catches and sends the shadows to dancing. It wasn't much light but I can see better at least.

"I'm sorry. This is going to hurt…."

As gently and quickly as possible I pull the fabric away, wincing every time it sticks and pulls. The more skin I uncover the more I shudder in sympathy. Red and raw, it isn't a pretty sight. Once I have an unobstructed view of pale torso, I can see the long lacerations along his ribs and I suddenly feel like crying.

It seems he's had a run in with some kind of beast; one with a nasty set of claws. I can't see the cut on his shoulder very well, because the shirt won't slip off them.

"I need this out of the way…so um….If I help, can you sit up?"

The man doesn't answer. I snap my fingers and wave my hands but it is no use. He is dead to the world. I sigh. It is just as well. He not only needed the rest, but I'll be able to relax a little better.

Slipping my arm under his shoulders I lift him… or try. Grunting I try again with minimal success. It takes me three times before I finally get him lifted enough to work the leather down his arms, grunting when it catches on his gloves.

Honestly, why did he have to be wearing so much crap?!

I let his weight settle against me and mutter- pulling at the straps on his arms. Those aren't too bad to get off. The metal gauntlet on his left forearm, though, I find myself fighting and cursing. While it had frightened me at first now it is inspiring pure frustration rather than fear.

The metal clunks loudly to the floor with the gloves and I wrestle the shirt the rest of the way off. Successful in getting him half naked, I blow chunks of tangled hair out of my face and lower him back to the bed, tucking the pillow under him.

The cut on his shoulder looks just as nasty as his side.

I grimace in sympathy and hope to God he doesn't need stitches. Patching clothes I can do with a needle and thread… human skin? I feel faint at just the thought.

'Please,' I beg silently, 'please oh please don't make me have to use him as a giant pin cushion. I'm horrible when it comes to needles.'

Silently willing him not to move and fall off the bed, I escape again, this time to the bathroom. I close the door, for the illusion of space and lean against it to catch my breath. I force myself not to panic. There is a lot of dried blood, so I can't be sure of how bad/deep with cuts are. I really hope, for both our sakes, that they're not as bad as they look.

My stomach clenches, and I whimper pathetically, wondering just what I've gotten myself into this time.

"Don't think about it, Rio" I whisper into the quiet tiled room, "Focus on one thing at a time. Getting him cleaned up is step one."

It's with this thought that I start pulling towels off the shelf above the toilet. I pick my oldest ones. Those that are a bit ragged at the ends and are soft as sin so as to not aggravate his wounds. That, and if they get ruined I can just dispose of them without worrying.

Next I dig through cabinets, muttering.

"There should be a first aid kit in here somewhere…"

And there really should be. I'm a bit accident prone so I'm constantly stocking up on Band-Aids. Not that I think they'll help much in this situation but I don't exactly keep heavy duty medical bandages on hand. I give up after searching for a good five minutes. I can't find the damn thing to save my life…or more accurately, Mr. Muscles' life. I do, in my searching, find a roll of tape, though. And a giant industrial bottle of antiseptic. I add these to my growing pile, figuring they'll come in handy somehow or another.

Sitting back on my heels I try to make my numb brain work properly.

In place of those bandages, I can probably cut up a spare set of sheets…do I have any spare sheets?

Only one way to find out.

I climb to my feet, towels, tape, and brown bottle clutched in my arms. I stare at the white wood for a few moments before taking a few deep breathes. You can do this. Just stay calm and proceed one step at a time.

Please dear God, don't need stitches.

I push the door open and drop the supplies next to the water, happy that I'd bought an unconventional giant monstrosity of a nightstand rather than the smaller ones used customarily. It was coming in handy now. Running a hand through my hair I pull through tangles as I head for the linen closet in the hall.

The closet is narrow as sin, but a quick scan of the contents reveals that I do in fact have extra bed sheets. Those will work well enough until morning. I start to close the door mentally making more of a list. I'll probably need more water for cleaning and a pair of scissors…

I pause, door still in hand and eye my sewing kit. My lips are subjected to more abusive chewing. Stubbornly I dig for the scissors, ignoring the baskets more evil contents. I grab the scissors and escape. If I need anything else out of it….well…let's just say I hope I don't.

By the time I had everything I thought I'd need, my poor night stand looked like a warzone of medical supplies…ghetto ones. I snort grabbing a towel to soak the corner in water. First I need to get rid of the dried and not so dried blood.

I hover over his skin for a moment, debating internally on where to begin. Both were pretty dirty, but which one was I to attend to first?

I decide to start with his side, since it seems to be the largest in scale.

Methodically wiping away debris and blood, I work until his pale skin was pink from scrubbing and not blood. I am immensely relieved to see that it isn't quite as bad as it had first appeared. In fact it looks shallow enough that I might be able to get away with no sutures.

I do a mental dance of happiness. Not only that, but it looks like it's already healing. It is still bleeding sluggishly, true, but it looks like the blood is already starting to clot.

Personally, medical aide might not be an area I am strong at, but I know enough about the healing process to know this is a good thing. Already my spirits are lifting as the chances of my being able to save him improve.

Still, I put pressure on it to stop what little flow there is, watching his pale face closely for signs of discomfort. He still doesn't budge.

"Is this a good thing or should I worry?" I wonder aloud to the dark room. If this is a good thing or not, I have no answer for but since he's still breathing, and his heartbeat was strong- though erratic- I decide not to worry overly much. Maybe he's just sleeping off the fever?

Speaking of which, I reach over and grab the warm cloth from his forehead to rinse in the clean bowl. As I wring it out my guest grunts in his sleep and shifts, scaring the living daylights out of me. I jump naturally and almost fall off my perch on the side of the bed.

I have to stretch oddly to catch my balance and something cold presses into my side. Confused, I glance down at the offending object only to gape in shock.

Gun.

He had a gun.

I suck my breath in quickly through clenched teeth, letting out a sharp hissing whistle out into the darkness of the bedroom. I'm pretty sure I'm now several shades paler than a natural healthy skin color. I try not to hyperventilate at the sight of the shiny metal in its leather holster.

The only thing more disconcerting to a war victim, I've found, besides copious amounts of blood and night terrors- are weapons. I shudder and force myself to calm down.

This man was not only severely wounded; he was unconscious from a rather high running temperature. He couldn't hurt me. I was also saving his life. People don't usually shoot the people who are saving them from death…right? I hope to God Mr. Bum is not the exception out to prove my theory wrong. Maybe if I take it off I'd be able to rest easier? It was also probably uncomfortable with the straps cutting into his leg…

My hand hovers over his right leg, and I chew my bottom lip struck with a moment of indecision.

Would he wake up and hurt me for taking away his defenses? Do I risk removing it? Perhaps the better question is: Do I dare leave it?

With painful slowness I unbuckle the harness and draw it away, large brownish hazel eyes glued to his facial features. When he remained sleeping my shoulders slumped.

Cradling the object of my horror in my hands, I felt more than just the weight of the metal. I held in my hands something that carried the burden of possible stolen lives. It was unbearable. It felt dirty. And I was not going to cry.

Holding it like one would a bomb about to explode at any moment- I stand and move to hide it in my dresser. Closing the drawer with a quiet tap, I relax immediately, fighting the urge to say a prayer to banish any evil. I'm not overly religious by any means but…

Blowing out a long breath in a quick burst, I turn to go back to tending him attentively.

Now that the wounds are clean, I have nothing to do really, except pack them and bandage them tightly.

I set about preparing for this, keeping a wary eye on the object of my most recent heart attack, in case he decided to move again. Grabbing a sheet and the cutting tool, I perch back on the side of the bed.

Wielding the shiny scissors, I began to hack at the material in my hands- cutting even and neat rows for wrapping. It was tedious work and I found it more than a little anticlimactic to be honest. Here I am, running around like a chicken with my head off, gathering all these odd and end supplies- only for the actual tending to end quickly.

It's a bit of a rip-off. I feel completely cheated- especially after the whole, working myself up over the whole needle to human skin, thing.

Not that I'd prefer the unconscious bum on my bed to have even nastier or gaping wounds, of course!

I sigh and begin folding up cut out squares to use as packing. At least his color and breathing were getting a little better; it meant that I wasn't having multiple heart attacks for no reason at least.

I lay out my neatly folded packing squares and strips of fabric. They aren't the most professional looking material to work with, but they'll have to do for now. I'm not about to go out for gauze and bandages right now. Not only was it raining, I highly doubted any place would be open at…I glance wearily at my clock hidden amongst my supplies: 5:23am.

I'll think about running to the apothecary tomorrow…er…later today for proper supplies.

Rolling my shoulders in preparation of lifting Mr. I-weigh-a-ton, I briefly consider the bottle of antiseptic on the nightstand.

Pouring that acidic substance would burn, which could lead to rousing said injured person, and would also possibly agitate that same injured person. A delirious, possibly angry stranger is not on my list of wishes to experience. In fact, it's pretty far up on the 'Things-I-never-want-to-do' list- right next to sewing together human skin.

Did he even need it? I consider his wounds in the flickering candle light. The cuts don't appear to be infected, what with all the pink healthy skin and no suspicious liquid oozing out. Cleaning them off with water alone had done wonders.

I also don't think the fever's from infection, so much as exposure to the cold while drenched to the bone. Pursing my lips I decide against using antiseptic for now, but I'll keep it handy just in case.

I begin the daunting final task of my mission.

Fighting his tall limp frame into a sitting position for the umpteenth time in who knew how many hours, I secure the makeshift gauze substitute with tape and begin the monotonous task of wrapping his lower torso. It's not easy. With him dropping limply against me I'm finding myself fighting not only with the fabric, but to not end up meeting my fickle friend the floor.

Grumbling irritably, I decide it was thick enough to last and struggle with one last loop before double knotting the fabric firmly.

I sigh in relief once his weight wasn't shoving me off the bed. Luckily his shoulder I can tend while he's flat on his back. My own aching back sings a hallelujah chorus.

The gash- though it was more of a cut really- was done up in record time, leaving me with very little left to do. Throwing my quilt over him now that its pristine condition was no longer in danger, I shift, sliding until my butt meets the floor and I can stretch out my numb legs. Rubbing the tingling skin to bring back some circulation to the abused limbs a glint of metal catches my eye.

His metal gauntlet lay on the ground with the discarded shirt. Momentarily distracted, I pick the shirt up- pocking fingers through holes that matched his wounds. Later I'd fetch my sewing kit, and attack the ripped fabric with my meager patching abilities. Folding the leather fabric I drop it and the gauntlet on the foot of the bed.

I also have a big mess to clean. All the supplies littering my bedside, not to mention my left over dinner and the mug I'd broken earlier. It was hard to believe that had only been a few hours ago. It felt like a lifetime.

Right now, I'm too tired to get off the floor. Shifting around to get more comfortable, I rest my cheek against the soft checkered fabric.

I struggle to keep my eyes open. Even though his coloring was better, the fever had yet to break, which meant I still have a long couple hours of monitoring to do.

I groan into the covers. It's going to be a long day.

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><p><em>TBC...<em>

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><p>Edited 2012: (Longest chapter ever! D::: )<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer! I do not own any of the characters depicted in this story. All rights for the** Final Fantasy **series are reserved by**Square Enix.**

I bow to TayMors editing and Betaing prowess. *snuggles*

Now for the chapter

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><p>Chapter IV<p>

"…without a solid reason I saved him…"

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><p>The light from the opened curtains burned the back of my eyelids, dragging me from the fitful sleep I'd fallen into.<p>

Stirring drowsily I blink open heavy eyelids, shifting gingerly as my body protests my awkward choice in sleeping positions. My whole body hurts, from my numb and tingling toes to the raging crick in my neck.

Rubbing icy digits over the said crick, I try to force myself awake. My mind though, feels like it's been stuffed with cotton along with my mouth. Running my tongue over dry ridges and gums I start to become more aware. Groaning into the bedspread to muffle the sound, I try not to feel too much like a failure.

He's been asleep for almost two days now, and I was helpless to do anything to fix it.

Those entire two days and nights, his fever hasn't abated, not once! Outside the storm is still going pretty strong; that too has lasted the extent of his coma like state- an ill omen that sends chills up my spine. Luckily his wounds at least are doing much better.

I'm beginning to worry that he'll never wake up.

Glaring out the now open curtains, I try to figure out how much longer the rain will last. The window box outside the sill was flooded. The geraniums inside have long since drowned; bruised beyond repair. It was just one more thing I had to obsess over; at least it looked like my ivy would survive.

The rain's still pattering on the roof but it seems the heavy buzzing of it had lessened to a more pleasant hum while I was asleep. Earlier, about around dawn actually, I'd pulled the curtains open to use for light in place of my dwindling candles, and had noticed the clouds had begun to clear so I wasn't very surprised.

The storm is abating at last.

Running one hand through my bangs to straighten them, I focus groggily on the bed to assess my patient's condition. Its takes a minute for me to focus but when I succeed I suck in a breath as hope blooms in my chest. Mr. Tall Dark and Unconscious looks a lot better today. His breathing is smoother- more even. The high cheekbones I refuse to envy have lost their unnatural red color and are now just marginally flushed. I use my wrist to check his temperature. Still there, I note, but its getting softer.

I let my hand slide away and stare blankly, not really focusing on his features so much as I'm lost to my own inner musings. I want to weep in relief.

It looks like he might make it after all.

This was hugely relieving. Since I haven't been able to get his fever down, I'd begun to think… I shake off the morbid thoughts. It doesn't matter now. He's better, or a least getting there. So what now? His wounds won't need to be checked anytime soon since I just –re-bandaged them…when?

I check the clock: Two? Three hours ago?

My shoulders slump as it hits me that I really have nothing else left to do. I rub the chilled skin of my arms, and sit back on my heels blankets bunching around my feet. After the first night spent at Mr. Muscles' side, I'd made myself a pallet to sit of with soft blankets and extra pillows. I eye the tangled heap; I wouldn't be needing it any longer, it seems. The worst of his fever abating means he doesn't require my immediate and constant attention. I set about straightening the mess.

I chew my lip as I worked, noticing vaguely that it was stating to become a rather bad habit. I should really stop doing it. It rips the skin, makes it get chapped and bleed. However, I am finding that I'm doing it more and more thanks to my guest. He isn't even awake and already I'm a nervous wreck thanks to him. I feel a smile tug at my lips and I shake my head- Foolishness.

Gathering my nest up, I reluctantly tear myself from the bedside for the first time in thirty-six hours, climbing unsteadily to my feet. I groan as the room does a lazy twirl. I steady myself with a hand on the nightstand, patiently waiting for the room to stop dancing before my eyes.

I haven't really been taking care of myself much; instead devoting all my attention on the wounded stranger. I'm slightly dizzy from sleep deprivation and my stomach is growling in angry demand of food. Instant noodles would not satisfy it any longer.

It's more than time to remedy that fact. First things first: I want a shower.

Shoving my nest into an empty space in my closet, I pause outside the bathroom door and stare hard at the worn wood, torn by indecision. Do I want it bad enough to chance bathing while this unconscious stranger was not 10 feet away on my bed? Granted he's completely out of it, and hasn't moved in a good twenty-four hours or more but…I shudder at the thought of what could be in my hair, and the blood caked under my finger nails.

Yes, I want it that badly.

Besides it doesn't appear as if he'll be stirring anytime soon…I scurry into the tiled room, locking the door behind me, sending up a prayer for good measure as I do. Something along the lines of, 'Please God, if her wakes up, knock him back under,' would suffice.

As I reach for the faucet I catch myself, realizing I've almost made a rather large error. Edging back towards the door, I peek out, reassuring myself of his slumbering state before grabbing a change of clothes, slightly mortified at what I'd almost done. Coma state or not, sneaking around for clothes in a flimsy towel was NOT my idea of a good, well, idea. I'd seen waaaay too many sitcoms to think it'd turn out simple, and in my favor.

Once back in the bathroom I can't help but find the image a bit amusing. Laughing quietly I get into the shower stall and go about my usual routine a bit more quickly than usual, before dressing. I eye what I'd grabbed in my haste and decide it's not a bad choice. A grey wool one piece pulled over thick black leggings in deference to the chilled rainy weather.

I shuffle back out in snuggly wool socks, peeking cautiously around the door jab into the room before exiting completely. I blow out the breath I didn't realize I'd been holding, "Still where I left you."

Moving towards my closet I grab a pair of boots, hesitating as I do so. I chew, for the umpteenth time at my overly abused lip. Would it really be okay to leave him here?

It's Monday, and I have the mid-morning till afternoon shift. Though I'd spent the entire weekend battling for his life, sometimes in a literal sense with my grace, I felt bad leaving his side. I move to the bedside feeling his forehead for the umpteenth time. The flush has receded even farther from his face, though he was still a bit too warm for comfort. I shift the boots to dangle from my other hand.

I need to go…but the thought of leaving him alone doesn't sit well with me. Deciding I was being paranoid, but unable to help it, I move out of the room towards the table where my old fossil of a phone sits. Fingers hovering over the receiver, I waver.

Was calling in to work a bit radical? His wounds aren't yet healed, and though I've managed to wrestle the bleeding under control, that doesn't mean he's out of the danger zone yet. Leaving him unattended for more than a few minutes makes my stomach turn knots. I curse my stupid paranoia as I begin dialing. A familiar gravely voice, made so by years of chain smoking, answers. "Hello?"

I square my shoulders and try to achieve the correct amount of concern into my tone. It wasn't a hard thing to do.

"Hey, Boss, It's Rio." I pause, tucking the phone between my cheek and shoulder before tugging at snags in the fabric of my dress. I hated doing this.

"Um…Friday…something came up and a…" I pause again wondering what exactly I was going to say. I agonized mentally over my choice of words stalling. I stalled perhaps a little too long for the gravely voice spoke up again, this time deeper and laced with concern "You okay?"

I stopped fidgeting, feeling ridiculously like a disobedient child that's struck with guilt over lying to her father. Swallowing, I force myself to relax. I'm not doing anything wrong, I remind myself.

"I'm fine. Something came up and…Would you mind giving me a couple days to take care of some things?" My guilt deepened, even though I wasn't being dishonest, as my boss answered promptly.

"Take your time. Just try to get it settled by the end of the week." He hung up before I get a chance to gush my thanks. He's never been a chit-chatter. Setting the phone down, I grab my coat and place one hand on the door knob, before stopping. Should I tell him I'm leaving? Sure he's not awake but…

With a sigh I tip toe back to the bed room to peek in. He's still laid out, covers pulled up to his chin, and black hair cascading everywhere.

Moving soundlessly across the faded carpet I perch on the edge of the bed,- smoothing the covers, tucking in edges, and change the towel over his forehead. Satisfied that he was as comfortable as I could make him for now, I pull the boots over my stockinged feet.

"I'll be back. I'm just going to run to the apothecary." I say out loud though I don't expect an answer. Nor do I receive one. I sigh and leave the room closing the door softly behind me.

It's a rainy and miserable day outside. Shivering under the overhang above my door, I flip open my umbrella and set off for the clinic. I need to hurry so that I can get back as quickly as possible. Leaving him alone and unattended for more than a few seconds, let alone the minutes it'd probably take me to finish my errands- just the thought of it's enough to ruin my nerves. Luckily it doesn't look as if this will be a long trip at all, for the streets are pretty much deserted except for my-self and a few others that have braved this wet morning.

I twirl the umbrella idly in my hands, watching as the dark blue material above spins a lazy circle. I sigh and my breath mists the damp air. I hate the rain. Though I'm pretty good at categorizing, or pinpointing, the numerous causes for my many pet peeves, I'm not sure I have a concrete reason for this certain problem of mine. It's been something that's always bothered me, even during early childhood.

While others would put on their rain gear to splash in puddles gleefully, I'd sit in the sanctity of my window seat- bundled in blankets and glaring at rain drops that fell across the window pane.

My mother used to tease me, asking if I was afraid I would melt if it touched me. Feeling nostalgic I held a hand out from under my portable shelter and smiled as the rain hit my skin. I feel a bit foolish standing here in the rain grinning over my hand getting wet. I decide that two days of barely any sleep or nutrition was beginning to drive me slightly batty.

I shiver and shake my hand dry before continuing to walk- heels clicking smartly on cobblestone - trying to ignore the pattering on the umbrella that's loud in my ears.

So absorbed by this singular noise in the quiet morning, I blink, surprised when I hear a cheerful jingling noise that's conspicuously out of place. I spot an over hanging sign that declares the owners state of business. I smile and head for the building I was in search of.

As I get closer I discover the source of the odd sound. Wind chimes. All of assorted colors and shapes. They hang off strings- bottle green globes, flashing shards in shades of violet and gold glass, and coral shells align the front of the shop. There are even a few dancing crystal faeries, glowing rainbows in the wet. I shake my head and push through the buildings doors.

The clinic is a pretty small building that usually smells thickly of burnt sulfur and incense. It looks more like a knick-knack shop than a pharmacy; candles litter every available counter space not taken up by the register and countless books. A few of the candles are already lit because the sky was so overcast today; leaving very little light to go by from the windows. As such the smell is thick, and it's horribly warm inside. I cover my nose with the back of my hand; trying not to sneeze as the odor in the room makes my nose burn and eyes water.

Un-buttoning my coat I tug off my scarf while I walk the short distance to the long counter. Fidgeting with the fabric I cast a furtive glance about the room, before clearing my throat.

"Excuse me?" No answer comes from within the dark shop. I turn to glace at the sign in the window wondering if they were closed but hadn't locked their doors.

"Can I help you?" Practically jumping out of my skin, I whip back around to focus on the bent old man now at the counter. Placing a hand over my racing heart I manage a shaky smile. The old man glares over his spectacles and harrumphs moodily.

"You don't have to go jumping about and screaming. I can hear and see you just fine, young'in."

"I apologize for the noise…You startled me." I breathe out amused despite myself at the old mans cantankerous disposition. He harrumphs again dusting the long wooden counter than ran the length of the shop. "What do you need?"

Tucking my hands politely in my pockets I smother a smile and strive for seriousness, "I find my self in need of a good supply of bandages and gauze. Can you help me?"

I also list off a group of ingredients to use to make a home poultice.

The other day while reading one of my mom's old home remedies books, I discovered an herb called Gotu Kola. It's apparently used to help heal wounds and prevent infection. I figure it's worth a shot. While the wounds were healing pretty well on their own, the last thing I need is for the mystery man to contract an infection.

The old man pauses giving me an appraising look before he gives me a gap toothed smile. He seems to be impressed by my over night herbal knowledge. After that he's much more friendly throwing purchases in a bag and giving me advice on how best to use the herb. By the time I leave his shop, that old man has loaded me down with a few things he insisted I'll need, given at no extra charge.

"Are you sure I can have all this?" I ask uncertainly as he shoves the last of the purchases into a paper bag.

He harrumphs and shoves it towards me "If I wasn't sure I wouldn't do it. Now take it before I change my mind."

I nod gathering the bag into my arms, "I really appreciate this," I thank him profusely, bowing out of the shop. He waves off my thanks calling after me before the door swings shut, "You need anything else you come back here, got it?"

Since my arms are full I settle for a nod and a smile before I begin the fight of opening my umbrella one handed. After a couple fails, and almost spilling my newly bought medical supplies I set off quickly for home. I have a patient waiting for me and I've been gone long enough.

Will he be awake yet, I wonder? Part of me hopes he will be. I'm begging to worry a bit about how long he's been unconscious. What will I do if he doesn't ever regain consciousness? It's not like I can keep an invalid man in my apartment forever; especially if he's not aware enough to eat or drink. He'll either starve or die of dehydration. My brows furrow and I try to force the thought out of my head. It nags at me, despite my efforts.

Since I have no idea what happened to him the possibility that he won't wake is very much on the table. This entire time I've been assuming he'd gotten attacked by a rogue monster…Maybe I should see about getting him transferred to a hospital? Kalm only had a few walk in clinics, which were all nothing fancy…

My thoughts grind to a halt as a mouth watering smell drifts to my nose, even above the sharp scent of rain.

I stop turning my head this way and that as my stomach lets out an appreciative grumble. Finally I spot the source: a bakery that had its windows cracked open. I'm tempted beyond belief. Glancing up the road and back down the way I've come, I spot no one to judge me for a slight detour. My grumbling belly is more than enough as a very powerful persuasion.

I slip inside the shop grumbling as I have to downsize my umbrella once more. The warm air brushes my cold reddened cheeks and the smell of freshly baked bread makes my mouth water. Utter decadence. A pretty young woman with a gently rounded belly hobbles out of the back room as the bell above the door stops jingling.

"Welcome!" Her smile is big and bright as she greets me, and I do my best to return the smile, "Hello." I prop my umbrella by the door and walk up to the counter .

"Are you open?" I ask hesitantly, silently begging for it to be true. Her laugh rings out joyfully, "Do you have money to buy? If so, then I assure you my dear, we're open." I laugh along with her at the joke that was delivered with a conspiratorial wink. It seems the proprietress is as cheerful as her little shop.

"What's you fancy on this dreary evening?" she prompts with a tempting sweep of her arm to encompass the goodies in the glass display case she stood behind.

"I'm not really sure," I answer with a sheepish half smile, "I was just on the way home and smelled your baking. I couldn't resist." She chuckles merrily and leans on the counter top, a feat that surprises me since I'd think her pregnant belly would prevent such a move.

"I opened them this morning to help vent the place," she informs me cheerfully, "This place gets dreadfully hot when I have the ovens going." She pauses for effect, her smile turning slightly mischievous, "The fact that the smell lures in unsuspecting victims such as your self is a bonus." I laugh along with her as she sends me a playful wink, her cheerful behavior is contagious and I find my previously dreary mood lifting.

Leaning forward I eye the display, careful of the bag I still clutch in one arm. It all looks delicious and my pocket is still weighed down with a months worth of wages. I look up and smile "It all looks, and smells wonderful. Do you have any suggestions?"

She hums considering, tucking a loose blonde curl back under the handkerchief holding her hair back, "Well you look like a girl who enjoys her sweets, no offense. I have just the thing for you." I blink as she hustles back through a doorway her skirts swishing cheerfully. She'd said the last statement with such kindness, that I'm not sure whether I can take offense or not. Before I can think too much on the subject she breezes back in with a basket.

"Here you are and fresh out of the oven." Sitting it on the countertop, she lifts a corner of the cloth with a flourish. Steam wafts out and I nearly melt in pleasure at the sweet aroma. I sigh in pleasure and ask, "What is that?"

She giggles with delight "My specialty and most secret recipe. I too am a woman who loves her sweets. I came up with it during my last pregnancy." She covers the basket back up and rings up my total, perhaps knowing from my awed expression that I wouldn't be leaving with out the delicious food.

As she packs up the breads I casually ask, "So do you run this place alone?"

She smiles, her expression somewhat dreamy, "Oh, heavens no. My husband helps me get started before heading out for the Warf, he's a fisherman you see, and my eldest- Carrum, he helps around the shop when he's not at school." I nod, smiling and hand over the appropriate amount of gil.

"I haven't ever spotted this shop before." I mention off hand, giving way to my inner curiosity before hanging my new purchases on my free arm. "I live in the area and I was sure I knew all the local shops."

The woman laughs, "Oh, well we've only been here a little less than a year." I smile, "That would explain it."

I linger for a few more minutes making small talk, wanting to soak up a bit more warmth before I brave the cold outside. I sigh regretfully, "I should be going. I have a…friend at home waiting for me." If she noticed my odd tone or the awkward pause, she didn't say note on it, merely moved around the counter.

"Here, hon, let me help you." The cheerful shop keeper follows me to the door scooping up my umbrella and opening the door for me. We move out under the over hang and she pops the contraption with ease before handing it back to me.

"My name's Marguerite, but my husband calls me Maggie." She tells me with a shy smile. I return the gesture, "Rio, and its nice to meet you." I pause not really wanting to leave, but knowing I had to be getting back. I take a step, then turn back blurting, "Can I… Would you mind if I come back sometime? Even if I don't buy anything?"

Her smile widens, and I realize belatedly that she couldn't be much older than I am. It also seems as if she didn't wish for me to leave any more than I wanted to. With a warm feeling I realize I've just made a friend.

"Come back any time."

I leave her there waving after me as I head down the street still with a smile on my face. I barely notice the rest of my walk going over my experience in the shop and looking forward to eating my treats with a warm cup of tea or coffee. I turn down my street and jog up the stairs, juggling my packages carefully while I dig for my key.

I struggle getting the stupid thing in the lock, before nudging the door open with my foot. Warm air brushes my chilled body and I sigh happily. My little heater might be a finicky little thing a lot of the time, but when it was working, it kicks butt. Pushing the door closed I head into my kitchen humming softly, to deposit my goods and take off my outer layers.

I make it two steps into the kitchenette before I freeze. The hair on the back of my neck stands up and a chill runs down my spine. A foreboding feeling fills my belly and I try to figure out what exactly was different that was sending my senses on haywire. Then I hear it- A faint noise coming from the other room. Was he awake? Dropping my bags on the nearest surface I rush across the room to pull the bedroom door open.

The door is warm under my palm, but I feel as if I've been doused in ice. My breath strangles in my throat locking the scream from escaping. Slowly the blood drains from my face, probably leaving me as white as a sheet.

Because rather belatedly, I find my self staring down the barrel of a gun.

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><p><em>TBC...<em>

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><p>Edited 2013<p>

Any questions or opinions can be reviewed and I'll be sure to answer them if I can.

Till next time!

_Reviews fuel an Authors love for writing! ; )_


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer! I own nothing! ...not even my sanity XD

A debt of gratitude to TayMor for her bravery and her superior comma usage. I'd be lost without you!

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><p>Chapter V<p>

"…Spurred by distant dreams…"

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><p>Let me ask you: Have you ever had a moment- where your body goes numb and your mind blank?<p>

Staring down the barrel of a gun is something I hadn't ever wanted to experience again; the following chain reactions of shock, that sudden cold rush of fear.

Body frozen in place, I find myself in another place. Here yet removed. My nails dig into the wood still in my desperate grip, before the muscles go numb. Fingers going slack, I wonder vaguely if I'm about to faint. Is this what it feels like? I've never in my life fainted before. Thoughts whirling I barely register the strong and painful grip on my arm before I find myself shoved against the wall. My shoulder hits the door jab, and I gasp at the throbbing pain. It clears some of the dizziness from my head.

It all happened in mere seconds but I felt as if I were moving through water.

What have I done to warrant such a violent and angry reaction to my presence? I think wildly- Does he not recognize me?

I cringe and huddle into the wall as I realize the gun is still trained on me with deadly accuracy. I lament the fact that I can not melt away through the hard surface at my back. The room is dark but I can see clearly as if gleaming spot lights were all focused before me. When I mentioned earlier that I'm terrified of weaponry? I wasn't exaggerating. The sight of the metal gun shoved in my face is nearly enough to make me faint all over again.

I can't catch a proper breath and dare not move. The air is frozen in my lungs- burning the inside, and working its way up to gather at the base of my throat where a lump has formed. I can't swallow, and my mouth is dry. My eyes are starting to water but I'm too afraid to blink, in the face of the danger before me.

It's so close that I can smell the tang of steal; A smell that I've always likened to copper- Blood. Unable to stand the sight any longer I finally close my eyes.

However, closing my eyes only serves to make it worse. The smell becomes sharper, making me gag reflexively. I swear mixed in with the tangy metallic smell is the aroma of dried blood. I sag drunkenly, sliding down the rough wall- trying to force breath to my starved lungs. The sound is harsh and jagged in the otherwise quiet room. I cease to care that I am not alone in the room, too far lost into the dark recesses of my own mind.

Images play across closed lids, morbid flashes that make my head whirl sickly. The smell of blood rancid in the air, as the beast soldiers snap at me. My body shudders and water leaks unbidden down my cheeks. I swipe at the moisture angered by my weakness. I try to pull myself together, forcing the steel traps in my brain to close. I'm hyperventilating and am far into the stages of blind panic. I almost laugh at the absurdity of my jangled emotions.

My shaking worsens and knees buckling I would have hit the floor if not for the strong boned hand now gently cupping my elbow. It brings me back to reality and the realization that I am not in fact alone. I'm not back in that terrible steel container locked in the darkness with a monster. I can practically feel its hot rancid breath brushing my cheek. A weak sob strangles on my lips and a few more tears fall. I'm not alone, I think desperately. I am standing in my room, with a stranger whom I have nursed back to health.

Staggering forward, I let his strength support me. His skin is so very warm, though naturally so for the fever had long since passed. It seeps through the wool material of my dress and warms my icy skin. Opening my eyes I gaze down and focus all my attentions on the pale hand cupping my elbow as I lean heavily against his chest.

Long tapered fingers and a thin elegant wrist, I should not recognize it. Somewhere, somehow though, in the back of my mind, I know this hand better than my own. I know this warmth and gentle strength. Why? I wonder dizzily. Why does this man haunt me? How can I recognize his hands and his eyes, when I have only known the man barely three days?

I feel as if I've known them all my life.

I flinch as I hear two rolling clicks harshly reminding me that while he's calmly supporting my dead weight, he's also still armed. When I hear him give an almost imperceptible sigh I tentatively raise my head to look into eyes the color of rubies.

"Never disarm me again."

His voice is deep, calm, and the tone is tight; signifying a hint of frustration and pain. I nod drunkenly, feeling weak and still catching my breath. I realize belatedly that the gun is at his side, held loosely in his hand.

The sound I'd heard was the hammer being released and the chamber dropping.

Swallowing I stammer out, "You've got an odd way of thanking people for saving your life."

My voice is high, I sound utterly hysterical, and my trembling voice breaks several times as it stumbles over the words. However, by this point I'm beyond caring. I'm mentally exhausted and after that little scare just now, I'm definitely feeling the lack of sleep I've been getting over the last thirty-six hours…or lack there of as the case maybe be. I sway and shudder "I feel sick…"

Ignoring the harsh put down that had spewed from my lips, he reacts instead to my second statement and his hand applies pressure to lead me towards my bed. I stumble- my still shaking knees deciding to rebel at last. I attempt to grab onto his clothing for support. It's only as my fingers brush warm skin that I realize his upper torso is bare. I don't even have to energy to be embarrassed or work up an apology for invading his personal space.

Gun back in holster both hands are now holding either elbow. Im grateful for the help he gives- slowly lowering me to the mattress before letting me go and moving away.

I fall across the mattress and curl into a miserable little ball on the covers, not caring that his dark eyes are watching me.

I'm frozen down to my very bones, I feels like I'll never be warm again. Shivering lightly I hug myself and try not to cry as nausea rolls through my stomach and pain throbs in my temples.

My eyes are squeezed shut as I try to suppress the images floating to the surface of my normally oblivious brain. I don't want to remember those things: Terror, screams, and pain- Smoke thick enough to make your eyes water. I try desperately not to get sick.

The pillows are soft under my cheek and the bed is still warm from its previous occupant. I snuggle down taking even and deep breaths. A scent lingers in the fabric- Rainwater and something distinctly male. I let my eyes drift shut and ignore the clenching in my chest.

Rain is such a lonely sad smell, its thick yet subtle and tickles your nose till you feel like crying. It brings forth thoughts of dreary skies and dripping wet. Such a sad and lonely smell, I think again drowsily. It seems to fit him. An injured stranger garbed in red and black- his eyes guarded and tone harsh. Yet his eyes hold such sorrow if one takes the time to look. These thoughts chase themselves redundantly in my mind. Soon I find myself lost to the comfort of my bed, as thunder rumbles outside.

* * *

><p>I wake to the sound of more rain.<p>

I sigh gustily and rub my cheek against the downy softness under my cheek. They smell a bit odd, yet it alone not an unpleasant scent. I can also however smell hints of blood and it makes my nose wrinkle.

Unpleasantness.

I burrow further down in the covers- the covers that smell of rain. The scent brings an image of red eyes and black hair. I shiver and tuck my body more firmly against the warm fabric. It takes me a few moments to become aware enough to realize I hadn't fallen asleep under them.

I crack open an eye and yawn widely, gazing about the room. The rooms cast with shadows and I blink up at the ceiling in confusion. Had I really slept so long? I uncurl myself and stretch my arms above my head lazily. When my foot brushes something I recoil reflexively. My eyes snap towards the obstruction and it takes my sleep deluded brain a moment to work properly. When I recognize the strange shadow sitting there, I huff and pull the blanket over my head. I'm currently doing my best to ignore him. It's not very hard, I think, the man has absolutely no presence.

Curling into a tighter ball I grumble inwardly. I bury my face in my cushy red pillow in effort to resist staring at him. I sniffle and do my best not to cry as I rub the bruised flesh on my right upper arm.

Brutish fiend

Sure, maybe he didn't recognize me at first and reacted on instinct. Logically I could see where he might be coming from. That doesn't mean I have to like him very much at the moment. However, he had helped me into bed AND covered me up as well. I grudgingly admit that he hadn't needed to take care of me. It was almost like… a silent apology. Can I really safely take it in that manner?

I inch the covers down a bit and glance out of the corner of my eye towards where I think he's sitting. Sure enough he's still there- back to the wall his knee upraised and supporting his injured arm while the other stretches the length of my queen sized bed. From what I can tell his eyes are closed. Is he sleeping? I clear my throat awkwardly to test my theory. The sound catches his attention and onyx eyelashes raise half mast to reveal one crimson iris.

The silence in the room as we enter into an impromptu staring contest is oppressive. I can only hear the sound of my own breath and heartbeat. If I didn't know better I'd say he was gone- A shadow that lurks in my room, there yet unheard. Usually when there's someone in the room with you, you can feel a sense of being but I can neither hear nor sense him even as he sits right before my eyes. How can someone be so still and silent?

I'm briefly tempted to reach out and touch him to see if he's really there after all- and not just a figment of my over reactive imagination. I resist for the simple fact that I'm not sure how he'll react to this action.

I trail my eyes downward vaguely noticing his still unclothed state before settling on the gun nestled snugly back in its holster. I stiffen and shiver- this time for a completely different reason. I decide to pretend I never saw it. Ignorance is bliss, or so I've always heard.

Swallowing I cast about for something to say, that will break the awkward tension. Unable to keep looking at him directly, I turn my gaze away. What to say? Hey can you possibly hide your weapon because I'm terrified you'll try to shoot me? That doesn't strike me as a good topic starter. Grabbing a pillow to hug to my chest so that I have something to do with my hands, I finally settle on a safe neutral topic. Half mumbling into my pillow, I say, "How are your wounds?"

The bed creaks as, I'm assuming, he shifts his weight, "They're fine."

Blunt and concise

Mentally I groan. Talking to this man, it seems, will be equivalent to pulling teeth….from an angry tiger.

Chewing the pillow case, I let the silence reign supreme for a few minutes longer before I can take it no longer. My father always used to say I had a bad habit of babbling when I'm nervous.

"Your shirt was bloody and ripped so I have it soaking in the bathroom sink." When this gets no reaction I add timidly, "I can mend it for you, if you'd like." More silence. I shoot a peek at him to discover his eyes are once again closed. Pursing my lips I resist the temptation to throw my pillow at his stubborn head.

I'm trying to be friendly you enigma! I yell, mentally. Grumbling I shift aside the covers and scoot to the edge of the mattress. If he was going to ignore me, then I would do the same to him. In the mean time, my stomach takes this moment to let out a loud embarrassing grumble. Flushing lightly, I scowl when I swear I hear the man chuckle. Stomping to the door, I hesitate briefly. It seems I can't bring myself to be rude after all. Curtly speaking at the wall, I refuse to look at him.

"Do you want anything to eat?"

"No." He speaks again in that hypnotically deep voice. Shaking off the goose bumps that threaten to break out on my arms, I grumble again and quit the room.

Digging into my goody bag from earlier, I stick the loaf of baked bread I'd bought from Maggie's earlier. It felt like more than a few hours since I'd been in her cheerful shop. Sighing, I warmed up a can of soup as well. Leaning against the counter to wait on my impromptu dinner to heat, I wince as my shoulder prickles.

Lifting my sleeve I study the bruise on my arm, and discover one on my shoulder as well. I glare huffily in the general direction of the bedroom before answering the dinging microwave. Pulling out my cutting board I set about slicing up the warmed bread. It smells so good, and my mouth waters as I break off a piece and eat it.

Never has bread tasted so good.

I suspect it's due to Maggie's baking ability and not only because of my sadly empty belly. Chewing the doughy food, I turn to the stove and stir the soup before clicking off the burner. I was too hungry to care that it's probably only lukewarm.

I eat my dinner standing at the stove, not bothering with silverware or dishes. Once the gnawing hunger began to recede I once again glance toward the bedroom. Despite what he said, after being unconscious for two days, he really should eat something. Dishing up the remaining soup in a cup and grabbing a few slices of bread, I pad across my living room.

Now well aware that it's a very bad idea to sneak up on my odd guest, I knock on the door softly before entering.

"You need to eat," I tell him, unceremoniously shoving the food toward him. Opening his eyes slowly he studies it for a moment. After waiting a few beats, I huff and set the cup and plate down on the window sill next to him, not quiet brave enough to shove it in his face as I wanted too.

"Staring at it will get you no where. You need to EAT it." I gesture with one hand "It's just soup and bread. I promise it won't bite." The expression on the man's face suggests that he suspected otherwise. He gives me a flat look that spoke of refusal. I really want to press the issue, but with our most recent encounter still fresh in my mind, I can't bring myself to challenge him. As much as I lie to myself, I can't forget the presence of the gun strapped to the thigh stretched along the mattress.

Frustrated with his stubborn attitude, I throw up my hands in surrender. "Suit yourself, then." Walking out of the room I head for the kitchen counter to grab the newly bought bandages and herbs. With jerky movements I go about preparing the salve that the old shop keep from this morning had slipped me instructions to make.

"Stupid, stubborn man." I hiss quietly and slam the mixing bowl down with more force than I'd meant in a flare of temper. Trying to calm myself, I blow out a breath and run a hand through my hair. After a taking a few moments to collect myself and my erstwhile temper, I pick the bowl back up. Grumbling and checking for cracks I curse him more under my breath before I cart my load back to the other room.

I pause in the doorway too momentarily get my temper under wraps. How strange- Usually I'm a lot more mild mannered and rarely give in to fit of temper. However, the man sitting on my bed at the moment really brings out the worst in me. Still hovering in the doorway, I take in the way the moonlight from the window throws his form into sharp relief. He'd shifted closer to the glass and was looking out at the dripping awning. I realize with a start I hadn't even noticed the rain had stopped.

Moonlight turned already pale alabaster skin, almost ghostly, and I admit the effect is an eerie one. Hair cascades over his shoulders, but the strands don't shine in the filtered light. Rather said hair seems to absorb it. A dark substance that traps light… it was an eerie comparison.

It definitely adds to the "Stay away!" dark and foreboding aura he exudes the top of his odd hair to the tip of his pointed boots. And I should. I should want to stay away from him and be afraid; especially after he practically attacked me earlier.

Yet, in spite of the wariness that I've felt from the beginning, I can't bring myself to fear him. His odd manner and dress don't set me on edge as I'm sure they're meant too. I am not immune to the creepy effects. So why instead do I always find his presence comforting instead of terrifying?

That more than anything frightens me.

Squaring my shoulders I walk into the room, making sure not to startle him. After all while he has yet to act hostile again, I don't particularly want to test his reflexes any further. Clearing my throat, I perch on the bed close enough to reach him but without over invading his bubble yet still the man tenses.

I mentally sigh, shoulders dropping ever so slightly and just go about arranging my supplies making no effort to hide them- counting on the fact that he was smart enough to make the connection of what I was about to do. His attention drifts to me and stays.

The close scrutiny, I admit is a bit nerve wracking, but I resolutely do my best to let it not show. Once properly organized I reach for the bandages around his middle. Simultaneously he instinctively shifts his body away from my outstretched fingers and my elbow just barely grazes his gun. I suck in a breath that hisses through my teeth and flinch away involuntarily. I mentally curse my own wimpish behavior.

Get a hold of yourself, Rio! I scold myself mentally. It's just a little scrap of metal, and it's holstered to boot! But no matter how I beat myself mentally, my skin continues to crawl. This is ridiculous, I think exasperated with my own behavior. I'm a twenty something year old woman. A grown woman. I can handle being near a stupid gun.

Resolutely I force my hands forward again, but I can't keep the trembling from my fingers. Just as I get in arms reach, the man takes pity on me and raises a hand, placing it over my hands to stop them.

"Leave it, I can tend to myself."

I lower my head as well as my hands. Bunching them, I clench my fists tightly. I was able to tend him just fine before, but throw one stupid gun into the mix and I start acting like a squeamish five year old. I turn away, frustrated, and say "Make sure to use salve on them. They're clean, but it should help prevent infection." With those curt instructions, I grab a few pillows and flee the room; feeling like an utter failure.

Closing the door softly, I pad over to my couch with dragging feet. I need sleep. Blinking back tears I do my best not to fall apart. That's the only reason can think of for my overly volatile emotions. Piling my fluffy load on the couch I throw myself on the cushions and drag the purple throw off the back of the couch. Curling up into a ball, I try to stem my tears. Over exhaustion and shock, I tell myself. I wipe my face and cuddle into the blanket, trying to force myself to sleep.

The room is silent but for the ticking of the clock on the far wall. I lay with my eyes closed, counting each click clack the pendulum makes swinging to and fro.

By the time I reach a thousand, I decide this method isn't working and instead work on clearing my mind- breathing deep and even, but still it doesn't help. Growling in frustration, I slap my hands over my eyes. Why can't I sleep? Over the years, I've managed to get over myself imposed insomnia and now usually rest relatively well, even when the occasional nightmare occurs.

Although…

I do have an injured and possibly paranoid gunman camping out in my bedroom. That alone could make a few people uneasy. True I didn't feel threaten by him, but being completely un-wary of any person that was armed is a mistake I'm not about to make.

Maybe I should take a walk? …This late at night? I snort mentally canning the idea.

Instead I pull a pillow over my face and sigh, almost wishing for the rain to come back.

Then I'd have an excuse not to sleep with all the howling wind and crashing thunder. I'll never understand how some people find such a racket soothing. It's wet, and loud. Even the smell- it leaves an unpleasant burning sensation behind when you breathe it in.

However…I didn't mind the smell as much when it'd been on my bed. It was actually kinda nice when mixed with whatever natural smell he carried. Musky and clean like the forests.

Throwing the pillow aside I roll to my belly burying my face in the cushion. What a thing to think about an injured stranger. I giggle into the couch, utterly amused by my sleep deprived thoughts. Great, I'm not only mood swinging worse than a hormonal teenager; I'm now turning into a creep. Ugh. Too bad the cure for such ailments is a good nights rest. It doesn't seem as if I'll be getting any again tonight.

Speaking of my guest, I wonder if he was able to treat his wounds properly? Pushing my cover aside, I roll to my feet, and tip-toe hesitantly to the bedroom door. Standing before it for a long while, I contemplate its worn and smooth surface. Should I peek in on him? If he's having any trouble, it's not like I'm capable of helping him; after all that's why he had to do it by himself in the first place. Should I know anyway? I raise a hand but hesitate. He might be asleep by now. Slowly I let my hand fall limply back to my side and stand there in my stockinged feet, uselessly wishing I could help.

Why do I care so much? Why does the sight of his eyes, and the warmth of his hand, stir such emotion in me? Never have I met someone that fascinates me more than he can, and he's only been conscious for barely a day. I waver again, lifting my arm. Never have I experienced such a desperate feeling of sadness over the fact that I failed to help someone.

Sure I've felt bad before, but guilty? Why, guilt? It's not that big a deal. After all he was awake now, and the fever was gone. He'd said he could handle it; and it's not like I know him…

But you have met him I shiver as a voice speaks up form somewhere in my soul. At the utter certainty that filled me following that statement. My hand instinctively curls in preparation to knock.

Preposterous, I scoff. Impossible, I think. But…

How else was I to explain the familiarity and the feeling of safety when I am near him then? I haven't ever panicked in his presence expect for the gun, and that had been more from an old childhood metal scarring than him personally.

This realization shakes me to my core. No…it must have been because all my focus was on the gun. I'd felt threatened. Of course I had! After all he'd held a gun to my head and slammed me against a wall for Christ sake!

Though, even as I try to rationalize the whole thing, when I think back on it, I'd merely been scared of the gun…not of him. Never once had I felt that he would kill me. There had been no murderous intent from him- in fact, it was almost like he merely reacted on instinct after being startled.

Blowing out a breath I give up on knocking and instead run my palm down the light colored wood.

"Who are you?" I whisper the words so quietly that their barley audible. "Why am I so attached to you?" The door that I had questioned doesn't answer. There's no real reason for me to go in there and I need to try and sleep- after all, now that he's awake, I'll be going back to work in the morning.

I step closer and lean my forehead against the cold skin of my knuckles. I give one last longing glance before pushing away and going back to the couch.

Goodnight, Mr. Gunman.

* * *

><p><em>TBC...<em>

* * *

><p><em>Edited 2013<em>

Haha! Cliff hanger! *ADA WONG* So...How many of you think I'm an evil authoress? :3

If you see any mistakes, please feel free to point them out for me. After all I am only one human and can't catch everyone, no matter how many times I comb the writing.

Any questions or opinions can be reviewed and I'll be sure to answer them if I can.

Till next time!

_Reviews fuel an Authors love for writing! ; )_


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any of the character depicted in this story. All rights for the **Final Fantasy** series are reserved by **Square Enix.**

Notes at bottom, for those that are curious, enough to hear my rambling and excuses.

I give you...

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6<strong>

"…_and long forgotten nightmares."_

* * *

><p>Time flies quickly, even as it feels to be crawling by with aching slowness.<p>

The last three days I've crawled off my couch to sneak into my room and get a change of clothes only to find the reluctant guest I'm hosting already awake and propped in the window sill; Silhouetted against the early morning light leaking through my bedroom window, my he is the definition of shadow.

He never moves- least never that I've seen. I'm beginning to wonder if he's melded with my bed. Though a few nights I swear I've heard him moving around silently- with all the racket the rain makes outside its hard to tell if it's my imagination or not.

Anyways, the first morning I went in I received a single glance as I opened the door, but after a few times he started to ignore me. I'm not sure whether this means he's used to me, or merely indifferent. Oh well, most days I'm too tired to care much what he thinks of me; He's so stoically mysterious it can be either one honestly. I'm starting to wonder if anything I could do besides taking his gun that would incite a reaction from him.

So far nothing I've done gets more than a long stare of stubborn indifference. Knowing conversation is at best one-sided, I simply check his injuries, and continue the ongoing silent feud to get him to eat. We never speak more than four words at a time, and even then most of that ends up being me. Silence doesn't unsettle me, and I'm used to being alone, but some odd optimistic part of me hopes that him not snapping at me means I'm getting a little closer to him.

I…am drawn to him. That is the only way I can accurately describe my attachment.

Every night on the couch, I think these same words over and over again to the point of redundancy, agonizing over every mysterious aspect of my guest instead of sleeping like I should. In fact I think about it constantly to the point of obsession.

Have I really sunk so low so as to obsess over a random stranger? It's not even his looks- which aren't bad- and I don't think its infatuation either. I wish it'd go away; I miss my sleep. For those of you who'd say "Just sleep!" I only have one thing to ask:

Have you ever attempted to sleep with an antisocial, not to mention armed, potentially dangerous and male stranger in the next room? Not the best incentive to venture to dream land.

Which is by no means, an invitation to go hunt down said antisocial, armed, dangerous, and male stranger to test out my theory.

Seriously I am going insane.

The nightmares are bad enough without the whole nagging 'Where have I met you' to plague my conscious. The feeling gets stronger every time I glance at him.

Lately, if I'm honest, it hasn't been all the problems above that have been bothering me into the early hours, however.

It's more the issue he seems to have with my cooking. Is he really so suspicious of me? Even after working so hard to keep him alive? Is it because he's a picky eater? Does he have allergies? Am I really just that bad a cook? The thought leaves me feeling a bit hurt to be honest. After all I am going to great lengths to insure his heath.

Whatever the problem, Food doesn't interest him. In fact he never eats a single thing, or if he does, it's never what I prepare for him.

How exactly can he go so long without anything to eat? Isn't he hungry? Maybe he eats while I sleep? Though seeing as when I do manage to sleep its more like a fitful nap that actual rest, so I doubt he's able to sneak past me into the kitchen without discovery.

His stubbornness is enough to give you a migraine.

Food isn't the only thing he never touches. He also refuses to take any medication for pain. Never does he speak a word of complaint of my first aide, but when I once tried to give him pain killers he just stared at me with those haunting eyes until I backed down.

Though not exactly afraid of him, I am also not completely without self preservation instincts; and let me tell you being on the receiving end of those glaring red eyes, isn't pleasant. I don't think he's the violent type because other than a few select episodes, he doesn't complain about anything, or appear hostile.

Maybe he's apathetic, like a robot.

Silently recalling that night I'd been slammed to the wall and a shudder works its way down my spine. Okay, maybe not so apathetic after all. He reacts, but subtly unless he feels threatened.

I sigh and lean my elbows on the wooden bar of the homey little Pub I work at. I try to shake of my melancholy and still my spinning thoughts. The deeply scarred yet pristinely clean wood grain blurred in and out of focus a few times before I let my head rest on my arms.

Last night I'd gotten even less sleep because his fever had come back and I'd spent the night fighting to keep his temperature down. It'd been better this morning, so I'd come to work, but now as my cheek rests against my arms, I'm starting to think maybe I should have stayed home to sleep.

Daintily I trace patterns of the wood grain with my fingernails, slowly scraping across the surface.

So many memories lay in this bar top.

It has witnessed spilled beverages, grease from food as well as the skin of people. It has born witness to countless faces, endured tears and anger, listened to the laughter of customers as well as their woes. This bar, with its aged wood and scars, reminds me of my boss. As old as time, yet sturdy as a rock, and just as silent- but contains so much heart and memory. It has endured and will always endure. I smile and continue to idly trace patterns.

I've worked here so long that the place feels like a second home. Though I suppose that's not a completely unnatural thing. After all in Kalm, has the classic 'everyone knows everyone, even if it's just in passing' small town mentality. Though expansion is necessary for _commerce__, at heart Kalm will always be a small sleepy village at heart- even more so know after…well, after all that we'd endured._

Heavy boot falls scuffed their way old creaking floorboards and a cup of streaming tea appeared next to my crossed arms. I glance up in to to smile at my bosses retreating back.

Grumpy, gruff old codger, though the thought is affectionate, and the cup of steaming tea is welcome.

He was an old friend of my father, had known us for years and had taken me under his wing when hard times had hit. I was indebted to him farther than I could ever repay, not only for giving me a job, but for the countless other moments of support. Not to mention giving me a warm place to come back to; he's shared with me his home, and I hold it dear.

Everyone should have warmth in their life. If it's only in small doses or something as simple as a cup of tea to warm a cold body, as long as there's something to help…

I've met many friends, shared smiles and stories. Though I don't know many by name, I knew them by their eyes, and enough to keep a conversation. Why have I never asked for their names? I frown thoughtfully into my tea. Am I really so removed from everyone?

Somehow the thought made more than just my fingers feel cold. Gulping hot tea to chase away the chill, my tongue smarts at the contact, and it brings water rushing to my eyes. Sucking air through my teeth I set the cup down and cough. Resolutely I decide that next time I'll make sure to get a name.

Picking up my tea, I pause as another frown tugs into place.

I haven't gotten _his _name either. He has to have one right? How rude, to not even give a name… I've given him mine…at least I think I have… I pause trying to search my brain for any recollection of introducing myself. I've chattered on about countless stupid things to make him less wary and suspicious of me. It was better than ending up between a wall and a shiny place. But, now I cant even remember if I've ever given him my name. Ugh how pathetic.

So far my, lets get to know each other since we're stuck together, hasn't born any fruition.

It's been a week since I'd found him; which of course means I've had a roommate for seven days now- give or take a few hours or so. Most people live with others very happily, or so I've heard. Some even consider it a gift to be living with a man, whom while odd, I suppose is….attractive, in a vampire-esque sort of way.

I think those people are idiots.

It has been very long and pointlessly excruciating.

He is quiet possibly the most anti-social being I have ever met, though I think this often, I don't suppose I can iterate this enough. I'm not even sure if making his acquaintance is a pleasure or displeasure yet. I snort into my tea, gaining a few odd looks from my bar mates. To make such a decision I would have to get to know him, and judging by his attitude he has no intention of ever speaking more than three words at a time to me. Then again he spends most of the day sleeping like the dead.

I doubt if I asked he'd even _tell _me his name. Maybe I should test that theory later tonight…after all I cant call him 'Um' 'Hey' and 'You' for the rest of his stay. No matter how well it has worked so far, I kind of want to put a name with the rest of the package.

…and once again I'm back to obsessing. Can I not go more than ten minutes without thinking about him?

I am now discovering that I have a weird slightly masochistic penchant for bouts of curiosity, that lead me to do slightly insane things….like dragging strange bleeding men into my home…and letting them stay there after nearly blowing a hole in me. Perhaps it's always been there, but I was too un-self aware to realize it?

God, why am I such an idiot? The nagging little voice that has taken root in the back of my head whispered snidely that I am a nosey busybody, that's why.

It doesn't make sense though, I defend helplessly. I've never had trouble ignoring the problems of others before, so why now?

The snide voice delivers its suggestion promptly. I was a CLOSET busybody.

By this point I am too sleep deprived to even defend myself against…myself.

I try not to groan aloud for the fourth time since beginning work. My boss is already sending me enough funny looks as it is. Which reminds me, I should be getting off break soon….yes, soon but not now.

I stare blankly off into space doing my best not to tip sleepily off the stool on which I am perched. I really need to figure out a way to get to, and stay asleep. My body is beginning to protest. I resist the tempting urge to lay my heavy head back down on my arms and nap, half sprawled across the bar. In efforts to keep this from happening I keep my posture straight and guzzle more tea.

To my sleep fogged mind, there seems to be no immediate solution besides kicking a currently injured and thus invalid man out onto the streets, and I'm not even sure that'd help at this point…

Upon further thought perhaps his presence is the problem, and it's just evolved into a deeper problem?

Either way the bottom line remains that since his wonderful appearance on my balcony, and his even more wonderful return to the world of the living, I get little to no sleep. Oh, plus my nightly terrors have returned and lovely oh-to-joy, they're as vague and creepy as ever.

What with them, and my inner turmoil of what he thought of my cooking skills, how was a girl supposed to get any quality rest?

At least I have some form of comfort in that the nightmares aren't what they used to be. The scared little girl inside me though dreads that they'll get more vivid, and it'll be only a matter or time before I wake screaming like I used to- and won't _that _be fun.

A shudder works its way down my spin, and to cover any odd reaction, as well as wake myself up, I make a show of stretching languidly to hide my growing unease. I don't relish the thought of what may, or may not, come. Maybe I should start taking the medication again. The thought isn't a pleasant one, and I rub my arms to rid them of goose bumps. Was it just me or was it freezing in here?

Done with my tea, I swivel- cup in hand- deciding to end my break.

Spotting a family of five get up with check in hand I detour to their table with a tray and focus my attentions on collecting the dishes instead of on my morbid thoughts. Distractions are good while they last right?

I haul my collection of empties up and cart them to the kitchen to be washed; mentally naming off various tourist spots and their amenities to keep on my feet.

Pushing through the swinging doors in the archway behind the bar, I make my way over to the sink. Standing on a stool at the large basin was Maggie's son, Carrum. The boy had his arms up to his elbows covered in soap bubbles and some was stuck in his curly brown hair. I resist the urge to ruffle the messy mop he called hair further, though I break into a grin despite myself.

Maggie and her husband, whom I've visited after work often over the past week, had something they needed to take care of and Maggie had asked me to look after her son while they were gone. I hadn't asked details, but understood why Maggie had worried about taking Carrum away from school. So I'd agreed to keep an eye on him.

…I'm still not sure how exactly Boss ended up joining the care committee. All's well that ends well I suppose. Boss needed an extra hand now and then and Carrum seemed to be an eager to please type of person.

Secretly I think it's more a thirteen year olds hero worship of the boss than anything. In Carrum's own words:

"_How many times do you meet a war veteran who looks like a pirate, in a sleepy town like Kalm?" _

Shaking my head I begin to unload, and flash a smile in the boy's direction when he appeared at my side.

"How's it going back here?" I ask to be conversational, as we both begin to scrub. His smile is gap-toothed and as charming as it is shy. How can your heart not melt over such a sweet face?

"Good! Did you know the boss, man used to be a fisherman when he was younger like my dad?" his voice lowers "You don't think he was _really _a pirate do you?"

I laugh softly surprised and a little charmed by the amount of sparkling curiosity in those large and wide brown eyes. In that moment he looked so much like his mother. I lean in and lower my voice for affect "You never know, but keep an eye out."

Chattering with the boy helps lift my spirits at bit which helped me feel more like myself.

However the room is taking on a blurry edge and I blink a few times to make the sickening sensation to go away.

"Hey, are you alright, Auntie? Your face went pale all of a sudden."

I clench my hand around a half clean plate and slowly the room stops looking funny. But that's not the only oddity. My hands are immersed in steamy hot water, and I still can't help the slight shivers that tremor along my body. The room really shouldn't be cold enough to make me to shiver…

"Even if Uncle's a pirate I don't think we need to be afraid him. I think Uncle'd be a nice one." A slim hand rests on my skin and I flinch imperceptibly at the contact. His hands are cold! A few moments pass before he reaches for my cheek "Auntie, you feel really warm. Are you sick?"

"Sick? How could I…" I groan. Suddenly my symptoms were adding up: the light-headedness, the chills, and the lethargy. I have a fever. A dull sinking sensation fills my chest. Ugh just what I need; the icing on my preverbal cake. How was I supposed to care for an injured man while I was unable to care for myself?

"I think I'll be fine, but maybe I should go home so I don't get anyone else sick."

Carrum nods and takes the plate from my hand before shooing me. "I can handle the dishes alone, you go home Auntie." I nod with an apologetic smile, drying my hands on my apron as I move away from the sink.

The room wasn't spinning any longer, thankfully but the chills are only getting worse. Trying to compose myself I lean against the wooden bar and flag down my boss. His shrewd brown eyes scan over me before jerking his head at the door. "Go home. You're dead on your feet."

After those few rather encouraging words with the Boss I soon find myself bundled into a coat with a strict order to get well. Even though there was only an hour left before I got off anyway, I still feel guilty as I'm virtually shoved out the front door.

The cold air hitting my skin makes my teeth knock together. Shuddering I force myself to walk forward cuddling into my jacket for warmth. Damn fevers anyway. I think crankily. My sneakers scuff and shuffle along the street while puffy white clouds form from my breath. And damn the cold while I'm at it. Usually I love the fall, but as it stands, and because it's nearing winter, the sheer temperature drop is not conductive to sickness.

This is what I get. I figure the fever was caused from complete exhaustion and driving myself into the ground not only working but staying up late to take care of Mr. Dark and Gloomy Gunman.

The sky's rumble ominously over head and my shoulders slump- Please tell me it's a lie.

Luckily the dark bubbly clouds over head held strongly to their watery content all the stumbling way home. With my front door in sight I manage to heave my now achy body up the stairs with key in hand.

Fumbling to get my shaky hand to hold still long enough to jab the key into the whole, I struggle but finally defeat the last obstacle. Swinging inside along with the door, my shivers lessen at the welcoming warmth of home. I breathe in the scent of lilies, and lemon wax. Not daring to pause, in case my body decided to sink to the ground and never get up, I slowly make progress out of the entry way, the bedroom my intended destination. However my couch calls with a sirens song.

I hesitate swinging my gaze between the door and the couch. My body wept for rest but my heart wouldn't be at ease until I checked on my resident enigma.

Dragging my feet I breach the doorway before a sinking sensation takes over and everything goes black.

The last thing I expected was to be wrapped in warmth. With a final deep breath that smelled of sandalwood and rain, I let my body win, and fell asleep.

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><p><strong>TBC...<strong>

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><p>You know, she passes out a lot. Which, it serves its purpose but wow, Miss Rio. So we're crawling along here at a snails pace but we'll get there eventually. This story stars Vincent, and we all know how long it takes him to- well... progress. *thinks meaningfully of X amount of years he slept in a coffin.* He should give Rio some theropy, and lock her in his coffin. Maybe then she'll stop passing out, yes?<p>

Now you all might be thinking: This story is going no where. I say this because as Im writing it I sometimes feel the same way. So let me say that while nothing appears to be happening, I assure you, all this builds up to the point I want later on.

So I suppose I should also apologize for the huge delay of updating, because honestly I havent felt inspired to write lately. Especially since I'm not sure what people think of this story, and since I get so few reviews I dont feel like people are reading (even when they probably are) and thus the urgency to update sadly isnt there. Which by no means, implies Im abandoning this story. I will finish this if it kills me so no worries there. Im also anal about accuracy and thus research is required. Ah research. Nothing kills your love of a character quiet as quickly.

But Finally this chapter is up. You all dont want to know what I went through to get this stupid chapter uploaded. Never have I had to scrap and restart something so many times. I never want to see it again. T-T So if there are more mistakes: Spelling and Grammer wise, than usual, let me apologize now because I admit with no shame that I barely proof read this thing. Yes, Im that sick of it. Feel free to poke fun at my horrible grammer. haha not only that but Fanfiction had a problem with the file and...nasty stuff happened. I'll spare you the details.

Alright Now I leave you to go do other things...like sleep...or you know...write chapter 7.

Any questions or opinions can be reviewed and I'll be sure to answer them if I can.

Till next time!

_Reviews fuel an Authors love for writing! ; )_


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any of the character depicted in this story. All rights for the **Final Fantasy** series are reserved by **Square Enix.**

Thanks for reading and hope you enjoy!

And I give you...**  
><strong>

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><p><strong>Chapter 7<strong>

"_Both of us were wary and unwilling to trust…"_

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><p>The moment I regain any semblance of consciousness, the only thing I can describe the moment as is that I feel as if I've been cast down into the pits of hell. Though it's better than where I'd been previously in sleep.<p>

I toss and turn on the mattress, trying to kick free of the suffocating blankets that cling unpleasantly to my sweaty skin- and mostly to keep myself from falling back asleep. Being in that place is frightening; I hate how dark it is.

Flashes of reality and fiction float around my subconscious until, in my feverish state I am unable to differentiate between the two. And yet I cling desperately onto the narrow ledge, fighting the heaviness in my limbs, and exhaustion of the mind.

Inevitably I suppose I should have realized from the start that it was useless. I whimper as I loose the battle and drift out- the exhaustion dragging me down until I fall under the dark spell of sleep…

I am greeted by a never ending wall of black. Thick and oppressive, it swallows my form until I am nothing. It seeps its way into my being and threatens to suffocate the air from my lungs. Instinctively I panic; a natural human reaction to being left alone. However, I will my heart to slow its beats; knowing that beyond this harrowing wall, I am not alone. Sadly calming down isn't an option, for knowing what was to come somehow makes it all the worse.

A little girl trapped in a small, dark enclosure- barely wide enough for her short child-like arms to span outwards. It's too dark to see her face, it's too dark to see anything really, but I know she is not alone.

The one who'd ripped her from her mother's arms is still here. It lurks in the inky blackness. The ragged sound harsh and wheezing in the silence are it's breathes. It wreaks smelling strongly of rotted meat and tinged copper; Scents that bring up memories of death.

The girl gags- not only due to the smell so close to her face, but from lack of breath. Her sobs echo. Her voice is trembling with distress; calling out for her mother- begging her to come save her. Though only calls for her mother leave her mouth, I can hear her desperation for salvation. I can feel her fear in the air. It shakes the core of my being.

_Mommy…Mommy Help! Don't let the bad men take me away!_

Her cries escalate, breathes becoming shorter and harder, calls over and over again fall from her lips. The sound is slightly muffled because her face is buried against her knees; she seems to have very little regard to the pain her salty tears cause to the open wounds there.

There is noise every where; loud enough that you can barely have a thought in your mind.

It helps drown out the wheezing of the beast beside her.

Inside, there's the sound of sobbing and hissing breath. Outside there are rounds of gunfire, and screams. Every sound echoes inside the prison- ringing so loud it hurts. I raise my shaking hands but fail to muffle the cacophony completely.

_It hurts. _

_Stop it_

_I'm so scared._

_I don't want those bad men to hurt this little girl. _

_Where's mommy?_

_Please…Please…!_

Then the gunfire halts, and there are no more yells of battle outside this steal cage.

Then a crash sounds; the sound of metal grinding against metal and suddenly there is light suffusing the narrow prison. I jerk my head up in time to see my kidnapper in full view. Twisted limbs, and face half obscured by metal, the monster before me that was once human. I am no longer looking down on the scene, but out of small tear filled eyes. My shrieks of terror at the sight of its serrated fangs rip from deep within, a sound surprisingly loud for such a small body.

The monster snarls, feral in its anger but its attention is not on me. I shriek once more in terror as the beast rushes past; small hands fly up to protect my head. More echoing bangs sound- it's a sound that now at the tender age of eight, I know to be gunfire.

With a shrill cry that borders off into a whine, the beast's snarls stop and silence reigns once more. Footsteps approach, calm and even; and I cower farther into a dark corner. My hands grasp tightly to my bare shins; tiny nails digging into already raw skin. I'm too scared of what awaits outside to look up anymore.

But my light is interrupted by a long shadow and the footsteps halt. Sensing that I am under scrutiny I look up through tear dampened lashes…

I shudder when something cold hits my forehead. I wince and turn my face away only for it to follow. It's uncomfortable and hurts. My entire body aches.

I futilely continue to try escaping the cold, but soon shaking my aching head back and forth becomes too tiresome. It also is increasing the pounding in my temples. So I give up trying to escape and relax, allowing something cold and damp to rest against my feverish forehead.

At the contact, my face stops burning and I sigh shakily as goose bumps break out along my skin. It feels good, actually. Water droplets fall along my temples into my hairline; the droplets warm as they slide along, before meeting at the nap on my neck. I can feel them settle there tickling the skin. I shift restlessly at the ticklish sensation that borders on itching but gentle pressure on my shoulder stills me.

My heart stutters and slams against my ribs as I'm restrained. Even though it's with gentle pressure, Images of blood still flash red behind my closed lids and I suck in air in panic. I can recall how it feels warm against my skin. I can almost _smell _thick and tangy in the air. God it wreaks. It's strong and coppery; metallic like a penny on you tongue.

A small sob escapes my throat, my body jerking instinctively away from that gently pressure. As I move something silky brushes my cheek, causing my nostrils to flare as I suck in another breathe in surprise at the contact. The smell of copper is replaced with the sweet scent of rain and leather.

The initial panic that had swelled up so quickly, reseeds even faster. My eye lashes flutter under the weight of the slipping towel.

I know this smell.

This smell is safe.

It's warm and gentle. The only person I know who has this smell is…

Desperately I try to garner the strength to open my eyes, but their lids feel like led. I try futilely over and over but it's like my lashes are glued to my cheek bones. My heart aches as I give up.

It doesn't matter I chastise myself even as disappointment settles in. He isn't real after all. I'd only open my eyes to emptiness. It's better not to open them and remove all doubt; cling to your dreams, and all that.

Slowly my tense muscles unclench and I sink into the comforting coolness at my naked back. Afraid he'd disappear if I moved, I lay still slowly inhaling and exhaling as the blankets are tucked around my burning skin and the slipping towel is readjusted.

Just the thought that I was being watched over was comforting enough that soon I drift back to a solid but dreamless sleep.

When I next open my eyes it's to the dim glow of my bedside lamp. I blink blearily up at the ceiling: Once, twice, thrice, until my eyes don't feel as sore. I lay there alone in the dimly lit room with my quilt tucked up around my chin.

Hopefully I move my head, gazing around with my eyes. Searching. Hoping. Slowly I come to realize I am indeed alone.

I exhale gustily and let my eyelids drift back to my cheeks fighting desperately against the feeling of depression and loss that falls over me. _I'm not disappointed. _I tell my self sternly _I already knew I was alone._

If only I didn't have to wake up.

If only my angel were real.

I smile in self deprecation because even if my dreams are terrible nightmares, I'd rather face a million of them to see him, than to face reality alone. It's in these moments that I feel all my losses more acutely.

Mr. Angel, why can't you be real?

A loud thump startles me and I quickly prop myself up on one elbow and turn my head toward the noise. The hope wells up despite my inner caution, but it's only Carrum shuffling through the doorway balancing a pastel pink bowl in his hands. Water sloshes inside the bowl, and ice cubes clink musically as he tries not to spill and walk at the same time.

I stare in confused stupefaction at the boy until he notices I'm awake and smiles shyly.

"I'm glad you awake! You had me worried!"

When did he get here? Better yet why and _how_ did he get here?

I've never told him where I live, and I sure as heck didn't bring him home with me. As these thoughts swirl in my throbbing skull, Carrum abandons his burden next to the table lamp and plops down on the edge of my bed. "You sure slept a long time."

I bat my lids a few times to focus, still propped on one elbow "When…How did you find where I live?"

He lends me a glass of water, and as I accept the glass automatically, I suddenly realize how dry my mouth was. Swollen and achy my tongue keeps sticking to the roof of my mouth. Blanching at the odd sensation I slowly sip at the water and wait for an explanation. "Grandpa told me where you live."

I hand him back the glass and give him a reproachful sigh, correcting him on autopilot,

"Boss isn't that old, it's disrespectful to call him 'Grandpa'." Lifting my hand I brush back my bangs and try to muddle through what was going on it wasn't easy. In fact I couldn't even figure out what felt was _wrong _if _anything_ at all.

"Anyway, how did you get in?"

"Uncle let me in" The answer was straight and too the point as he fussed with something with utmost concentration.

I let my hand fall from messing with my hair and back to the blanket; watching in confusion as his small but capable hands quickly go about sorting through a bundle of packages. When it doesn't seem as if he has anything to add I feel the need to prod his into continuing "Uncle?"

Uncle? I repeat silently to myself mentally trying to figure out who he could be talking about. Unfortunately my still fading fever appears to be muddling my brain. There shouldn't be anyone who has a key to my house. I never gave one to the boss… Hell I don't even have a _spare_ to hide under an obviously fake rock that someone could steal!

"Yeah, the slightly scary Uncle in a red capey-thing," He makes gestures with his hands around his neck and back "He let me in, and also gave me all these medicines to make you better." He grins at me "He told me to look after you. So I stayed."

As he'd spoken I'd listened with half an ear, not really registering much and had moved to lie down. However when the words finally processed correctly I freeze in the act of laying back down and instead sit bolt upright in bed the covers peeling slowly from my skin.

"What did you just say?" I ask the question weakly, as if in a daze. Eyes wide I stare wonderingly towards the boy.

Carrums face pinkens slightly and he averts his eyes. "Um Auntie…"

I reach out and grasp his shoulder in a gentle hand, forcing him to focus as it seems he's become distracted by something.

"Uncle? In a red coat?" I ask trying to clarify, making sure I hadn't misheard. Suddenly the haze is disappearing from my sluggish brain. It's shocking how quickly one can sober up at the mere mention of a few simple words- Words that send my senses on high alert.

"Yeah, he was a lot taller than me, and had long hair. Kinda like a girl." He makes a face, typical of a boy his age "Why a guy would want to look like a girl by growing their hair out makes no sense."

Long hair, tall, and a red coat- suddenly it all clicked into place.

Mr. Gloomy Gunman.

"He told me to look after you and left." His nose scrunched up "But before that, Auntie…"

My heart literally stopped a moment before I tightened my grip "What do you mean he left? He can't leave! He's still not better!" My voice is bordering on panic but I can't bring myself under control.

How could I have forgotten him? How could I have been so out of it as to let him leave?

Why hadn't I woken up sooner? Damn, Damn, Damn!

Carrum's brow furrowed "Was he unwell? Now that you mention it, he did seem to be walking kinda funny, but I didn't really-"

All traces of lethargy giving way to panic, I roll onto my knees blankets tangling around my waist. Gripping both of his bony frail shoulders, I search his eyes desperately as if they held a hint or clue. Or perhaps I was hoping to find out he was playing a prank on me.

"Where did he go? When did he leave!" My voice has risen in panic and it rings loudly in the room. I wince, realizing I'm practically shouting at the boy, even though not I know it's not his fault. It's not anger I'm feeling now either but something more akin to blind fear. I cant calm down. What if something happens to him?

"I-I don't know." Carrum's face pales a bit before he stutters "I'm s-sorry, should I have stopped him?"

Pull it together, Rio! You're scaring the boy!

My hands are shaking but I brutally reign in my emotions and slowly I force my tone to calm. "You haven't done anything wrong." I assure the boy with a sincere but shaky smile "Now, try to remember. Did you happen to see which way he went when he left?"

There's a brief pause that probably lasted on a few seconds before Carrum's head bobs up and down. It felt like an eternity to me. "Ye-Yeah, he went off towards the Warf; the one that's along the east route."

Hands patting his shoulders in reward I try to coax more information out of him "Good, now about how long ago did he leave?" I silently pray that he hadn't had a chance to make it too far.

Carrum takes a moment to think about it before answering, "About five, tah ten minutes ago."

I throw off the covers and clamor off my bed ignoring the now beat red boy at my side. "Good boy, Carrum" I praise him, ruffling curly locks with my fingers "Now you wait here- Auntie has to fetch back her runaway patient"

"Bu...but…Rio!"

I'm already across my apartment and throwing open the door, not registering that in the boys panic he'd used my given name.

The temperature outside is almost frigid but I don't let that that stop me, attributing it too any lingering fever I had and race down the steps. The cobbled stone is burning my bare feet it's so cold, but I don't have time to turn back for shoes. I have to catch him. Carrum said he was limping, so he can't have gotten very far right?

As I wheel around a corner and stub my toe on a rock I curse and keep jogging.

Why do I feel so desperate? Why am I so scared of him leaving? Is it really only because he's injured? I shake off this thought unwilling to process it further. For now all I need to do is run.

And run I did.

Past an ogling old man taking out his trash, and almost running into metal trash bin; nearly scaring both myself and the cat behind it to death.

I swerved around corners and ducked under waist high fences, knowing, just like any other native of Kalm, the ins and outs of the towns many shortcuts. A thin sheen of sweat is now coating my skin making it feel grimy and making the breeze on my skin feel all the colder.

My feet were practically screaming obscenities at me for forgoing shoes in my rush. I haven't yet paused long enough to look down in check, and I'm too afraid to look down while running lest I trip, but I'm pretty sure they're in bad shape.

If I don't have gashes on my soles from all the rocks I've stepped on, I'll consider today a good day.

Finally the moored boats come into view, singling my arrival at the fishing yard. The elation I feel makes me want to cheer, but at the moment he stitch in my side is making hard just to inhale. The muscles in my thighs and calves are twitching and so I'm forced to check my gait to a much slower speed. Sucking in lungful after lungful of air, pretty sure I must sound like either a dying person, or at least someone who'd been a smoker all their life.

Fortunately it seemed my mad dash though town had paid off. I could see a familiar red clad figure off down the road paralleling the Warf.

"Wait!" I called out after him, coughing when my throat protests. I am wishing more now than ever that I knew his name.

_Please hear me!_

I pant shallowly as I try and run faster, accomplishing more of a hobble hopping motion than a run.

_Please turn around!_

Mist swirls around my ankles making it hard to see where my feet will land.

I quickly come to regret my rush.

You see its unfortunate, especially if you're in a hurry, but running along the afore mentioned Warf in bare feet, is a bad idea even on a normal day. So on days like this, when the light swirling foggy air makes the floor barely visible and they're wet from rain is _bad._

Now in most stories, people always tell you how these moments last forever; that everything comes down to moving slow motion.

I assure you this is not the case, for my fall progress quiet quickly. More so than I culd react to.

Alls it takes is a wrongly place foot and suddenly my foot is sliding out from under me, and ankle twisting I tip toward the dark waters below.

Shrieking once in surprise my heart stopped and my eyes squeeze shut on instinct a moment before impact. As my back slaps against the top of the water, only one thought is traveling through my otherwise blank mind.

_Oh dear…I can't swim… _

And then I was swallowed.

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><p><strong>TBC...<strong>

* * *

><p>Okay let me just state that yes that was evil and horrible of me. *dodges any angry glares or pitchforks*<p>

Now that we have gotten all of THAT out of out systems *ahem* There are a few things I'd like to address here.

Before I get any questions about it: In the dream sequence, you'll notice at first Rio is talking about the little girl to suddenly being the little girl. Yes I did that on purpose. No, it wasnt an accident or error. She's wavering between being herself and the little girl. Though it's my hope that you weren't confused to start with, I also hope this clears any confusion felt.

So let me just add that this chapter is totally unedited, and I think it's also horribly short. Which brought me to post a poll on my profile, on a side note so that I can hear popular opinion. *nudges meaningfully*

Though editing wont really make a difference on the length, it makes a big difference on how long it takes to update. Which is why I'm giving this chapter to you in its wonderfully unpolished state because I am sicker than a dog and feel bad making you all wait any longer on the chapter because I've been sleeping 14 hours a day and thus haven't proof read. Especially since a bunch of you listened to my emo-tastic sounding whining last chapter for a review! lol (Which means yes it's been tentively done for a few days)

This reminds me that I have a special thing to say: Thank you all for the wonderful reviews, and Alert adds! It made me so wonderfully happy! Its one thing to see your hit counter going up, and actually hearing from people!

Anyways! Enough of my ramblings!

Hope you all enjoyed it, and remember:

_Reviews fuel an Authors love for writing! ; )_


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any of the character depicted in this story. All rights for the **Final Fantasy** series are reserved by **Square Enix.**

A gift from me to you: Happy Valentines Day!

Without further ado I give you...!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eight <strong>

"…_Yet somehow a camaraderie was born"_

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><p>At the first touch of water, instant panic sets in, causing my common sense to fly out the window. Instead of keeping calm and kicking like a sane person, I struggle and scream like a banshee. There is nothing <em>sane <em>about the sound. It is loud, desperate, and I sound so very young. Then I'm under.

I manage by some miracle to surface for a few moments. Desperately sucking in air and flailing my arms, hands grasp blindly for something to hang onto. However my shaking fingers only find chilly mid fall air, and yet more water. The cold temperature is quickly beginning to sap my strength and unable to keep myself afloat, I let out a garbled terrified shriek before I go under again. I'm barely able to get enough breath in my lungs to hold it.

The waves close over my head and then I'm sinking quicker than a ships anchor. I struggle but already I'm out of breath, and what little I do have left I'm holding onto desperately. My heart is fluttering in my chest like a frightened bird, and adrenaline is pounding through my veins.

Further and further I go, bubbles floating up from beneath me to dance towards the light surface.

And as my wide panicked eyes watch that spot of light on the surface grow dimmer, the first thing that flashes through my panicky mind is that it is _beyond _absolutely freezing.

The second one is, quiet unnecessarily, that it is very _wet _down here_. _I have stated previously before, but I hate the wet. I think it's official that my mind is currently loosing its sanity.

Tired but unwilling to give up, I struggle onward, but it's only making me go _down _instead of up.

My hair floats into my line of vision, obscuring it. Its then that it hits me; finally sinking in.

_I'm going to die_

My mouth opened in shock only for water to rush _in_, instead of a scream coming _out_. Yes it was stupid, but aren't most natural reactions? The taste on my tongue is absolutely disgusting- All thick and briny. Snapping my mouth shut, I then choke; bringing water rushing up my nose- burning it,_ hurting_ so horribly that my eyes water. And then I'm crying. I'm not even sure you _can_ cry under water, but it's what I _feel _like doing and thus I _am_.

_I don't want to die._

My lungs convulse painfully inside my chest and I suck in more water from the pain, unable to stop my natural gag reflexes.

_Please, God, help me..._

As tears mix with the salty sea water my body goes limp, too weak from oxygen loss to move any longer. And then I'm floating, drifting, _and sinking. _

And I know it's all over.

Feeling despair set in I keep my eyes open, trained on that fading light until my vision goes black.

Vaguely as I'm surrounded by cold, I feel something warm, but hard as steel wrap about my waist, and then I'm being pulled. Too tired to open my eyes, or even fight whatever it is, I surrender, and suddenly my lungs don't hurt anymore, and it's no longer cold. I suddenly feel so…light! It's warm here. I like this.

_Finally. _

Sadly I'm ripped away from where this wonderful place is, as a heavy pressure insistently shoves against my chest. Suddenly my lungs hurt once more, AND it's freaking _cold. _

More pushing, harder this time; so hard I swear I can hear my ribs creaking under the pressure.

Then my eyes are open; the bright sun burning into them so painfully that I close them again immediately after, as I gag and sputter. Head lolling to the side, I spit the water from my mouth heaving and sobbing. The tightness in my chest lessens with every expulsion of water.

My heart thumps reluctantly, gaining more momentum as its realizing just as I am: _I'm not dead. _

I suck in air as if I've never had it before in my life. Perhaps I haven't. Never has it felt this good to just breathe! My arms start to tremble and soon my whole bodies shaking in time with the frantic beating of my heart. Relaxing into the cold ground I half cry, half sob around my coughing breaths.

_I'm alive._

Letting my body collapse limply onto its back, my head is still turned to the side, when my attention is brought to the fact that a gentle weight is resting on my hips.

Turning my face, I blink weakly against the brightness that replaces the dark nothingness of the water. Slowly I focus in front of me, only to realize there's a man hovering over me. Watching me; and closely with intense red eyes the color rubies.

Thick and inky, sopping wet hair trails down between us, strands curling lightly on my chest as I sprawl on my back. Unlike my gasping pants his breathes are slow and even.

Those sharp carmine hued eyes are assessing my condition, now. He seems to be waiting for something.

I try a shaky smile, but it twists awkwardly in distress. Sniffling and panting I can only manage a one word greeting: "Hi."

My voice is hoarse and sounds horribly broken, but I'm simply relieved that after the abuse my body just went through, that it works at all. He blinks down at me for a moment longer, his brow furrowing in a way that seems to question whether I've bashed my head against something on the way down to the water.

As my whole body is achy and throbbing, I am currently unable to neither confirm nor deny any theories concerning the possibility of a concussion.

However, it seems he's satisfied enough with my consciousness if not my mental state, to shift off me. Mr. Gloomy Gunman settles beside me politely silent as I catch my breath.

Soon as I manage to catch my breath, I roll to the side once more and push my self up on shaking arms. My movement prompts a question.

"How are you feeling?" The sound of his voice is deep and soothing, working wondrously to calm my overdriving heart. Though it's stilted and without inflection, I'm pretty sure that's as close to concern as I'm going to get right now.

Shifting to get more comfortable, I manage to stay upright at least.

"Why'd you try to leave?" I ask instead of answering, cutting straight to the heart of the matter. My voice sounds about as lovely as nails scrapping across a chalk board.

Those carmine eyes pull away from their view of the distant horizon to glance at me.

Sure I look a pathetic, half…er…more than half drowned frightful mess, I lift my chin unwilling to back down this time without answers. His eyes run over my features for a moment, as if looking for something, before returning to the horizon.

"…It was better that way"

I stared at him, not sure if I was more shocked that he'd answered or confused by the vagueness of such an answer. "Why?" I prompt, feeling I deserved a better answer; that I was _owed _a better answer.

After waiting a few seconds for him to elaborate, it only took me a few more to realize that was the extent of his answer. With a sigh that was shakier than I meant it to be, I scolded myself. _What'd you expect him to say, Rio?_

It's a question that has no easy answer.

Instead of dwelling, I quickly decide a topic change was in order. Yet every time I open my mouth nothing comes out. Snapping my jaw shut, my teeth click together unpleasantly.

The silence stretches awkwardly between us as we sit in companionable silence; dripping on the cobbled path by the water edge. Finally sick of the silence I ask the first thing that comes to mind "How are your injuries?"

Nothing quiet like an old fall back to revert to in tough situations.

"Fine" it's delivered with that same no nonsense tone he'd used when chastising me about his gun, and a straight face to boot! Well…mostly straight.

I would have been fooled if not for an almost imperceptible wince when he shifted his weight a moment later. Eyes sharpening, I lean slowly forward; instantly all concern, even though _I _was the one who also just drowned.

"Is it your shoulder?" I inquire scratchily, lifting a shaking hand towards him. My hand trembles violently, and my arm feels like lead, but I persist on checking the shoulder in question until his hand catches my wrist, saying very pointedly "It's nothing"

"Liar" I mutter "We should get you back to my apartment and clean it."

He doesn't move and I'm not moving before he does. I try again "Having all that salt water in your wounds must burn like hell" He doesn't respond to this either, just closes his eyes and lets go of my wrist. Pursing my lips I prod the beast "You know, running around while sick and injured isn't very smart."

I'd been the one running but who was keeping track of such trivial details?

He deigns this with a curt rejoinder "This from the woman who nearly just drown." …apparently he was.

I rub my bare arms, shivering in the chill before sneezing. "_I'm _not the one with gaping wounds. You're the patient here. Now are you going to move, or am I going to have to drag you back?" I decide threats were my only viable option left.

This seems to amuse him, though don't ask me how I can tell. His overall expression doesn't change a bit…though his eyes…

Almost reluctantly his gaze travels over me for a moment lingering longer than was possibly polite in certain places before he shifted his attention away. I stare in befuddlement as I see his lips start to twitch before he moves slowly to stand.

I narrow my eyes. It is almost like…

"-io!"

…he's laughing at me. He sneaks a downward glance in my direction a second time and I notice with some indignation that they're practically _dancing _with laughter! Okay maybe that's an exaggeration but seriously, _what _exactly was so funny?

As he makes slow progress back towards home- I suppose I should be happy I don't have to drag him back- he is unable to hide the slight limp to his gait. It seems that before when I'd asked if he'd had any gashes on his legs, he'd been truthful…but had omitted that they _did _have an injury. Perhaps a pulled muscle?

I gain my feet unsteadily and putter after him, weaving drunkenly. I don't make it very far. I quickly stumble as my jelly legs give out and to keep from falling I reach out in reflex, grabbing a handful of soggy red fabric. My knees buckle farther and I'm resigned to meet the pavement once more when an arm wraps tightly around my waist to steady me. His hand rests innocently against my hip, warm against my skin.

I start to immediately apologize, but the words die in my throat as I notice something.

Under the sharp scent of salt, Mr. Gloomy Gunman smells like rain and sandal wood. Now it's something that I've noticed before, but suddenly I _knew._

It _clicked_ into place so naturally.

Startled, my wide eyes meet his calmer ones.

Mr. Gloomy Gunman was from my dreams!

My mouth gaps like a fish but the only thing I can get out is a scandalized "_How?_" This can't be happening!My mind whirls, making my already dizzy and throbbing head even angrier.

"But you're not _real_!" I shriek this at him, already lost in the stages of denial. _This _can't_ be happening!_

One perfectly shaped black eyebrow wings up into his sodden bangs, a silent way of declaring 'Woman you're making no sense.'

"Rio-!"

My head snaps around to see Carrum racing up the walk, curls blowing wildly in the wind with something in his waving hand. I stare at him as he runs, too bowled over by my realization to speak.

"Auntie, you don't have any clothes on!"

…What?

This quickly gains my undivided attention.

Baffled I glance down. _That's not possible. After all I wouldn't…_

A skimpy pastel blue stripped bra and panty set are what meet my ever widening eyes.

_Wha-? oh _hell.

An incredulous and extremely mortified shriek of embarrassment leaves my lips, even as my arms fly to preserve my modesty. Or you know, the scant amount that's left of it that is.

Making a swift decision I grab a hold of one edge of the angel…gunman…_whoever's _cloak and use it to cover more skin. Curling around the fabric in a protective ball of shame, I don't even _care _that it's an invasion of personal space. I resist the urge to bat the hand at my waist away, well aware it's what keeping me upright.

The dark flush in my cheeks swiftly moves to encompass down my neck and shoulders.

_Sweet Christ why me? _

Glaring up from my huddled nest of red censorship, my expression dares my dark haired savior to make a comment. However, I need not worry it seems; after his initial eyeful of my assets, Mr. Gloomy Gunman seems to be content with staring off in the distance.

I don't even think he overly minds the space invasion…at least not too much. Perhaps he felt sorry for this idiotic woman who just ran through the streets half naked?

I sniff and try not to expire on the spot from embarrassment. This explains why the old man had looked so scandalized.

Then it suddenly hits me, and if my hands hadn't been occupied, I would have resorted to violence. Instead I settle on voicing my displeasure.

I had been fully clothed when I'd passed out earlier.

The shriek this time was of outrage.

"YOU PERV!"

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><p><strong>TBC...<strong>

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><p>Let me start off by saying, I HATE this chapter. I think it sucks, but I can't think of a better way to progress, so here it is. MOCKING me.<p>

Anyways She finally figured it out! *Cues dramatic music* only to find out she's also bare naked except for her skivies. Forgive me, I'm a strange child.

If no one made the connection about the end, Vincent was the one who stripped her. No he wasn't being a perv, as she screamed at him. Its common sence to get wet overly sweaty clothes off a person if they have a fever, since it'll only make them sicker. and then you pile them with blankets to keep them warm! ...My only other defense is: At least I didnt use the cliched sharing body heat thing.

I also have to ask this: Did anyone but me have flashbacks from Bridget Jones Diary, as she was running around though town last chapter? I know at least one clever soul made the connection that she was at least partially naked because she mentioned it in her review. ;) Clever girl you are My dear! You made me die laughing from that review!

A few points to be made:

The drownign scene, if it seems sketching and hectic: that was what I meant it to be like. She cant think clearly so it's not supposed to make sense.

My second point, at the whole eyeing scene, I must restate that no Vincent's not being a lech. (at least not completely.) If you just were confronted with a mostly naked drowned woman threatening you, I think ANYone would be unable to keep from starting just a bit...and you know being generally amused. That and well...Vincents a mostly human male too. *feels as if thats an 'enough said'.* _I'd _stare and I'm female.

On another note: Im feeling better! :D And here I was expecting to be on my death bed for a while longer. Its a pleasant surprise. So I decided to present you with my valentines present. I'm sorry it's shorter than normal.

Now I'll let you go, *shoos towards review button*

Hope you enjoyed and remember!

_Reviews fuel an Authors love for writing! ; )_


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any of the character depicted in this story. All rights for the **Final Fantasy** series are reserved by **Square Enix.**

This update is sooooo late... I beg forgiveness and give you

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><p><strong>Chapter 9 <strong>

"_So I came to realize…"_

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><p>Men are utterly impossible.<p>

Ask them to go left and they'll go right. Tell them they need food they snort and turn up to volume on the television to ignore their growling bellies.

Convincing _him _that food was a necessary part of life was akin to trying to pull teeth from an angry animal: Pointless and even more dangerous.

Okay the last one is perhaps a bit dramatic but my drift has been caught I take it?

Stubborn, stubborn man. Honestly why the resistance? Am I really _that _hard to get along with? Considering the notion for a few brief moments I grimly come to the conclusion that he's just overly anti-social. Not that I'm not a vain woman that thinks she's perfect; I just admit facts.

Just because I say he's antisocial though, doesn't mean we haven't been progressively getting used to each other- minimal as that progress may be.

In fact just the other morning I'd discovered something of epic proportions: A breakthrough at last.

I'd gone into the bathroom to find that the sink wasn't completely turned off. Inspiration had struck and I'd left a fresh towel and shampoo sitting on the toilet cistern as a test. The following dawn I'd found the damp towel hung up to dry.

Suddenly the mystery of his never greasy hair had been solved.

We'd made slow baby steps in this way. I'd leave items in discrete locales for him to find and use. A toothbrush here, a book there; each time I found one gone, or slightly stirred I felt as if a victory had been won.

Now if only I could get him to eat….

Glancing across the wooden island that separated the kitchen from family room, I eye the slim figure carefully poised on the sofa cushions. Both long legs were stretched across the pastel surface, black leather clashing with its softer hue. I made a mental note to go out and buy him some clothes. Sooner or later he'll be in desperate need of them.

That is a conversation I am not looking forward to broaching. After all, that won't be as easy as leaving a hairbrush on the nightstand.

How long has he been wearing that same outfit? My nose begins to wrinkle before I could shake off the disturbing thought. Though it was a gross notion, I don't think he's the grungy sort.

Honestly I think lack of order in general bothers him. There was no emotional indication of it, but there was just… a feeling I suppose that he's the type to be picky about that sort of thing. Maybe it was the way I'd noticed the bed was always pristinely made, or that despite him never really leaving my room, it never got messy.

Today was the first time he'd ventured out of the boundary of my dark room.

The TV droned on, though he doesn't appear to paying it any more attention to it than I. In fact, those sharp irises are slowly taking in their surroundings, pausing now and again as if taking every inch of my small apartment into consideration.

What, did he expect monsters to be lurking in the corners or something?

Snorting softly I deftly continued the repetitive motion of chopping potatoes. I'd long since given up trying to solve the brooding puzzle of Tall Dark and Scary- or so I keep reminding myself I should do.

Cooking was helping. Cooking is therapeutic, even if I am too lazy to put forth the effort seventy-five percent of the time. It's always more fun to cook for more than just yourself….no matter that my current someone else wouldn't eat a single bite.

_Clop, Clop, Clop; _Rhythmically the blade met the chopping board then a sharp scrap as my knife pushed the diced ingredients into the pot.

A deft twist of the wrist lowered the burner to a low simmer, slowing the bubbles to a softer pop.

Delicious accented steam drifted into my face before I covered the soup with a lid. As soon as the potatoes soaked up the broth it'd be done. My belly gurgled eagerly. Rubbing my noisy tummy in soothing circles over the fabric of my apron, I mentally listed the different ways I could try and get him to eat.

God I was so sick of this no communication thing. He seriously has all the finesse and vocabulary of petrified wood.

Puttering about the kitchen I absently run a dish cloth along smooth counter surfaces. I suppose I could always just ask- As if that's gone well so far. Mentally striking that off the list I moved on. There's always threats I guess…if only I had the leverage needed. Then perhaps begging? My hand pauses and lips purse. We'll leave that for the last resort; a _desperate _last resort.

Maybe…I could just use my usual method. So far its worked for us. This time would be no different right? It would just be more direct. Nodding I leave the towel and grab the table settings.

Balancing the made up tray carefully, I pad in what I hope comes off as a very casual pace. As it stands I probably look as if I'm approaching a live mine field.

Refusing to even look in his direction, let alone meet his gaze. I transfer the bowls and utensils to the coffee table. Placing the tray under the table I muster up as much courage as I can, before pointedly sliding one bowl along the worn surface.

I wait a few beats before making the mistake of glancing in his direction. Carmine eyes bore into me from beneath sooty lashes with a quiet intensity that shoots my heart into my throat. Swallowing I drop my gaze and nervously fumble about with my own food, stirring the potato's with enough zeal to almost pulverize the already mushy chunks of vegetable.

How can someone make you this nervous by just sitting there? So silent yet every inch of you is constantly aware of their presence. Does he have this effect on everyone, I wonder, or is it only me?

_Clink_

My spoon froze halfway to my mouth. Did he-? I sneek a glance and blink as our gazes meet again. Slowly he lowers the spoon back to his own bowl. When I continue to stare one black brow creeps up his forehead in question.

Trying not to grin like an idiot, and most likely failing, I go back to my own dinner.

I'd managed to get the stubborn fool of a male to agree to eat something. It was a small victory, but if I had my way, it would not be my last.

I go through the motions of eating on autopilot, mind to full of questions to really concentrate properly. I fight to not break the silence but in the face of my newest accomplishment it's difficult. Its silly but I felt closer to him now, as if our quiet dance around each other had halted and a truce of sorts had been called.

I wanted to dance I felt so giddy. Progress at last. In my eagerness I almost broached conversation but remembering how anti social he was, viciously reigned in the urge.

Just the other day I'd promised myself that I would continue give him his space, since he desired it so much; that I wouldn't hound him for answers. Unfortunately already my heart was wavering in its decision. It turns out I am a very stubborn and greedy woman after all.

Now that I know who he is, I realize how very little I do know; if I ever knew anything to begin with. Does it sound strange? I think so. And yet its how I feel. Since figuring out that my angel was in fact right before my eyes, a million questions have filled my mind. I try to suppress them, to forget who he was and go back to treating him like a strange nuisance in my life that was just a passing paragon of mystery.

But they persist.

Did you really save me all those years ago? Do you remember me? What were you doing there, and why did you save me? What kind of person are you? Where are you from? Are you in fact actually real? Or do I want you to be him so much that I'm fooling myself?

Each piles on top of the other until the words mesh and soon none of it makes sense. Putting a hand to my temple I massage the skin there in slow tight circles. My head is throbbing now but not as much as my heart. It was a painful feeling, but not an unpleasant one.

I place my other hand over my stomach, as if that would calm the wriggling knotting sensation caused by my nerves, and close my eyes.

I want so very much for him to be real.

I need to calm down. Though I kept repeating these words to myself I cannot manage to accomplish it. How can I be calm at a time like this?

I draw in a breath and let it out slowly, silently. Ignoring how my body shakes from the sensation.

Speaking of questions…I have asked one.

Lips thinning my eyes narrow on the flashing television screen in frustration at the reminder of my failure.

What I wanted to know most of all was his name.

What is so hard about giving a name?

This battle had begun a few days ago, the night after he saved me from drowning in the harbor.

After ringing his ears with shrill insults and threats of bodily harm should he try to leave again, a blushing Carrum had helped me into my coat and we'd all set off for home. The tirade had continued the entire way to my doorstep, to Carrum's embarrassment and The Gunman's amusement. Yes amusement! It was hard to detect but there'd been an odd light in his dark eyes that I'd swear on my mother's grave was something along the lines of mirth.

What he'd found so funny about me grumbling at him I'd never understand.

With the younger boys help cleaning Tall Dark and Creepy's wounds had gone a lot faster than it had before; which was a big relief. What was an even bigger relief was that it didn't seem as if he'd torn anything with his stupidity, nor during his rescue of my stupidity.

It was as I had been helping him, or at least trying to lead him, from the living room to the bedroom that I'd first posed the question. I'd asked his name. He'd paused and watched me for a moment with those dark unfathomable eyes before turning away. The action had been more than physical.

"There is no need for you to know"

He hadn't said it harshly or even angrily. My heart had ached because it'd been said with so soft a voice that it'd sounded almost sad.

No longer hungry I pick up my bowl and retreat to the sanctuary of the kitchen to do the dishes.

I didn't have to address him often but when I do I know instead of "Hey" and "You" replace my various nicknames in place of his. Part of me did it out of a childish fit of spite. The rest of me does it in a vain hope he'd give in and correct me with his name. There was also just the need of a way to address him. Hey and you, got old very fast.

Slowly my fingers halt and I stare at my reflection in the bubble ridden water. Even in the murky water, I appear down trodden.

Who exactly had hurt my strange gunman so badly that he would not even trust me with a name? For surely only another human being could instill such wariness, such a scar on the human heart.

I nearly drop the bowl to the floor. MY gunman? My lips purse. Where exactly had THAT come from?! Leaning on the sink I shake my head in exasperation.

He's a stranger. You have no obligation towards him. You do not need to become his friend. In fact he doesn't seem to want you to get close.

But I do have an obligation. He saved my life all those years ago. It might not have been significant to him, I might not be significant, but it had mattered to me. And damn me I want to be his friend. I nearly drop the dish a second time in shock over the realization.

It wasn't just out of a desperate need to pay him back. I want to get close to him. I want to know his name, and put a reason to the sadness I see behind his eyes when he doesn't think I'm looking. I want...to be his friend…to start with.

To START with?!

Staring at my shell shocked face in the window pane I resist the urge to just bury my head in the soapy water and be done with it.

Whow, Whow, Whow, Down girl. I chastise myself. You're approaching dangerous waters. After all, the gunman wasn't some exotic pet to be pampered and caged. If anything he was a wild wolf, a creature impossible to tame.

Disgusted by my thoughts I put down the bowl in my hands before I ended up breaking the thing after all in frustration. Why do I have to have such odd taste in people?

Done with the small amount of dishes, I strip off the rubber gloves protecting my hands, and haul my weight up onto a bar stool unable to bring myself to go over and sit on the couch like normal. Truce we may have established but we still had't reached such a level of closeness.

I stare vacantly at the glowing television screen, as a familiar blonde reporter rambles on about the dangers of the world.

It seemed there were still more riots going on. Really, couldn't there ever be anything happy reported? Our world couldn't always be so cold and depressing.

Sensing movement, I snap from my punishing thoughts about the news and quickly stand.

"No, No, No! I've told you to stay off that leg." Rushing over I attempt to scoop the empty bowl from his hands only to be forced to a halt and suffer through an affronted glare. His slender fingers are warm against my skin. I try not to blush as this action locks me firmly in his personal space.

"Um...?"

"I am not a cripple." The words are spoken softly as always and a shiver courses through my body. His voice always sounds like velvet shadows.

Deciding that I will not be bullied, I give my best motherly-reproving expression down my nose "I never said you were. Not stop being stubborn and let me help you!"

He resists still stubbornly holding tightly to the bowl, and I hover over him bent at the waist, glaring right back. I can be JUST as stubborn.

Another battle of wills is it. I narrow my eyes in an attempt to appear menacing. Bring it on!

My eyes are locked with his, and the almost amused light is back. I really liked how it warms his eyes. I almost smile back at that glimmer of mirth before I shift to brace my weight on the cushion so that I don't fall. The smile is replaced by confusion when my thumb brushes something cold.

What on…?

My eyes find the cold steel he still wore; the steel resting just millimeters from where my hand lies propped on the couch cushions to keep my balance. I can feel the color leaving my face and I flinch violently, the action convulsive and almost painful. Hands shaking I stumble back, and my leg smacks silently, yet painfully on the coffee table. Sucking air though my teeth and clammy skin crawling, I avert my gaze and try to get my small panic attack under control.

Honestly, how pathetic. This man will not harm me! If he'd had that intention, he would have already killed me! Whether injured or hale, I don't doubt his capability to do so. I know this and yet my heart is still trembling in fear. Would I ever be able to see a weapon without feeling faint?

I can feel him watching me, but in my shame, I keep my eyes lowered; unable to move for fear my weakening knees will buckle.

Foot steps sound, waster sloshes, dishes clink, and the steps return. Then all is silent until…

"Why did you save me?"

Lifting my head I find that he is once more seated on the sofa. I blink so stunned that he'd spoken I don't answer for a moment. Finally I manage to form words "I don't understand...?"

"Before, the balcony, Why save me?" His eyes are averted, staring off to the side; into the distance at something I would never see.

"You…You were hurt."

"I am none of your concern" it was spoken so matter-of-factly but with a certain edge that cut deep.

"Are you saying I should have left you to die?" The words sounded strangled as they came from my throat.

"It would have been wiser." His eyes turned and locked on my face, and his expression never wavered. I stood there utterly shocked at the coldness of his words, and the ice in his eyes. My heart sinks. The mirth was gone, replaced with that cold infathomable shield once more.

I'd messed up and once more he'd withdrawn.

Slowly my head shakes from side to side, begging him to understand "I could not do such a thing."

"And yet you are afraid of me." It wasn't a question. His expression is hard to read, but the way his head tilts is almost like…what? Curiosity? Perhaps…guilt?

"No!" I suddenly realize how loudly I'd shouted the denial. More softly I repeated "No, it's…it's not you." My shoulders hunch and I suddenly feel very small.

Ruby iris' bore into me. Rubbing my arms I remain standing in the middle of my apartment.

"I don't like guns." The admission is sheepish, because though it's justified, I've always found my initial reactions to the object in question a bit excessive. I meet those unwavering eyes and beg him to understand. Part of me wants to spill out my heart, to tell him everything that had happened, to tell him that I knew him from before, but under the coldness of his stare I'm unable to form the words. My heart aches, missing that fleeting bit of warmth that I'd gone and ruined with my stupid, clumsy actions.

And so all I can do is keep repeating the same thing over and over. "I…I just can't stand the sight of guns, but…I am not afraid of you."

"You should be" His voice is dark but I could hear again the bleak undertone of a man who's been tortured by his own inner demons "Saving you does not make me humane."

Defensively I hug my clenched fists to my side "I think you're a nicer person than you give yourself credit for."

"I am not someone you'd want to get close to." the words held a clear warning.

He turns from me and limps from the room, and I step forward, lifting a trembling hand. However that moment of closeness is gone, and slowly I fold my shaking hands behind my back to hide them. What can I say to that?

I am unable to come up with a reply. So I close my mouth and let me hand fall. Heart breaking I slump next to the couch. Though the sound is soft, I flinch when I hear the door latch. I'm left alone in the living room with just the droning tv, and my own self depricating thoughts.

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><p><em><strong>TBC...<strong>_

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><p>Poor Thing. Rio doesnt know whats going on. On that note neither do I but in a totally different meaning.<p>

Yay! Chapter 9! Oh how I hate you. I could not decide how I wanted it to end. Ugh. This story gives me so much writers block. Rio's character is...like...my opposite so...yeah. Haha Hard to get into that girls head.

So how many of you hate me for taking so long? ;) Granted most of the summer was taken by my job, for most of August I have no excuse other than laziness and writers block. Hee hee. Im a bad author. On a side not this chapter would have been up sooner...unfortunately I procrastinated too long and then lost my internet; though I'm pretty sure Im the only one who finds this bit of irony at all amusing.

Hope you all enjoyed this chapter! Till next time! And remember:

_Reviews fuel an Authors love for writing! ; )_


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any of the characters depicted in this story. All rights for the** Final Fantasy **series are reserved by** Square Enix.**

I'm sorry about the delay. I was really questioning if I wanted to write this chapter, or just focus on Rio and Vincent. In the end though, I decided that a bit of a detour wouldn't hurt and so gave this a shot. No worries Vincent and Rio are still the main focus!

Without further ado, I give you:

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><p>Chapter 10<p>

_Circa 2018_

_Somewhere between the Junon Area and the Migar Mountain Range _

_"The Search was hell..."_

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><p>"Calm down, Yuffie. This <em>is<em> Vincent we're talking about. I'm sure he's-" The weary man tailed off as he suddenly found himself with a face full of prickly ninja, "Can you guarantee that? Where's your proof?" Yuffie _Kisaragi_ was not a girl to mess with.

Reeve Tuesti gave her a long exasperated stare, "You're the one in charge of information gathering. So you should have any information that we need… It is what I pay you for, remember?"

Her big chocolate brown eyes narrowed menacingly before she spun on her heel and continued walking. Reeve let out heartfelt sigh and followed after her resignedly.

"So remind me why I, the president of WRO, am trekking through the slums of country side on foot?" Yuffie didn't even bother to turn around to shoot back her retort, "Because you're the one who lost our Vincent." Reeve frowned, "I didn't _lose _him …Besides that doesn't explain why we couldn't have brought the car, it really would progress matters a lot faster."

Yuffie gave a rather ill-natured smile, though Reeve being behind her didn't see it, "Because this is the way I work. Tracking cannot be done properly from a car."

Reeve was too much of a gentleman to accuse her of avoiding vehicular transport because she was a sissy when it came to getting motion sickness, so he instead tactfully changed the subject, "I concede your point. Onto the matter at hand: the last contact we received from him, he'd just left the grasslands and was headed north."

Yuffie stopped and looked back at him "North? North of the grass lands is the Midgar ruins right? Maybe he stopped off in Edge?"

Reeve frowned again, noting Yuffie's hopeful expression and knowing its cause. He really didn't like being the barer of bad news, "I've already contacted Tifa. She hasn't seen hide-nor-hair of Vincent since the date of his disappearance. She promised to contact Cloud and brief him on the current situation, and to get back to us if she heard word from Vincent, but so far we've had no luck." He watched as the spunky woman's shoulders drooped, her face visibly showing her distress.

The self proclaimed 'White Rose of the Wutai' had always had a propensity towards favoring the red clad gunman. No one had ever pinpointed the exact reason why but Cloud often pointed out that next to him, Yuffie was always the one most paired up on missions with the dark haired enigma. A sort of bond had formed between the two, though to be honest Yuffie was the only one who showed it visibly while Vincent remained as evasive as ever.

They continued walking for a few minutes before Yuffie spoke up again in a moment of rare vulnerability, "He's okay isn't he?"

Reeve knew no such thing but considering who they were discussing could still answer truthfully, "I'm sure he's fine."

It was Vincent Valentine after all. If anyone knew how to surpass the ages, it was him.

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><p>Three weeks. Three weeks they'd been searching and Reeve was beginning to lose hope. Every hour that slipped by without success, every person who shook their head unable to help, made the possibility of his survival of whatever incident less and less likely. He didn't say his suspicions out loud. He suspected that his companion already knew. She wasn't a child after all, and there'd been so much blood.<p>

Reeve sighed and thought back what they'd found not long ago.

A day and a half before hand they two had found a place in the canyons littered with the bodies of both guard and crimson hounds. There'd been possibly over a hundred, which wasn't surprising since Reeve knew there'd been several reports to the W.R.O of an increasing amount of accidents due to a population increase. He'd been meaning to send a team in but hadn't been able to find the time. After seeing the carnage back there, Reeve knew he'd have to reevaluate the situation. If they were now attacking in such large groups, it was too dangerous to ignore.

The moment Yuffie had seen the first gunshot wound she'd known. Somehow, without a plausible reason she'd known who was responsible. The shots were too accurate and few. Vincent had been here. She'd insisted on her theory, nearly to the point of desperation, but Reeve had been inclined to doubt it. He was a man of science. There was no way to prove that it had in fact been Vincent. Not only were gun a popular weapon, the gunshot wounds in the corpses, if they were in fact from a gun, were so deteriorated they couldn't go off on just a 'feeling' or mere surface evidence that it had been Vincent's work. Yuffie had stubbornly remained firm but had also agreed that they needed concrete proof.

So they'd searched the surrounding area thoroughly, Yuffie going off to check for physical evidence, while Reeve examined the bodies.

Even though Reeve couldn't claim to be an expert on the topic of decomposition, luckily he was able to confirm that the cause of death had indeed been at the hand of a gun and just from a glance he'd been able to tell bodies had been well into the fourth stage. This was good news; it gave them a general time frame of when the obvious battle had taken place. The fourth stage takes place 10-20 days after death. Meaning they were more or less approximately two weeks behind their friend.

If it had in fact been Vincent.

Yuffie found their proof halfway through the graveyard. Lying in what had once been a pool of blood, she'd discovered a familiar black and red cell phone. It was badly cracked, blood stained, and broken, but it had been too close in resemblance to Vincent's to be a coincidence. She'd lead Reeve too it and his expression had been grim when he saw the dark read stains in the dirt. Yuffie insisted that the blood wasn't necessarily human but even her voice shook. They did remain hopeful though since the blood wasn't excessive and there was a scarce drip trial leading away. That meant what ever had been injured had gotten away, and had been bleeding very slowly.

After that Yuffie'd become like a woman obsessed. She had to find her friend. He was alive. She could feel it in her bones. But every time she had to look into Reeve's eyes and see that damnable expression of someone who was preparing for the worst, it broke her heart. But she wouldn't… _couldn't_ give up. Not on Vincent. Not on one of their own.

The next day and a half had been murder. She'd wandered aimlessly, blindly searching for any sign of their missing friend. It'd taken that long to convince Yuffie to give up the search long enough to rest, but finally Reeve had managed. He'd succeeded by telling her that since it'd been a few days since he last talked to Tifa that they might have heard something by now. So with heavy hearts the two had set off toward Edge.

This brought him back to the present. He sat on a stool listening to Marlene and Denzel talk animatedly about how Cloud had recently brought home gifts- Marlene more so than Denzel. The boy was a lot taller now, but still didn't speak much, preferring to leave that to the cheerful Marlene. Reeve believed that was Clouds influence there. Marlene didn't seem to mind the boy's silence though, filling the long gaps with smiles and laugher. Both had grown so big. It was hard to believe that Marlene was already a teenager and that Denzel was only a year or so away from becoming an adult man on his own. They talked a bit longer before the two excused themselves and Reeve didn't miss how protectively close Denzel stood next to Marlene as they left, nor did he miss the light blush on her cheeks. It brought a half hearted but genuine smile to his lips. It was good to be young.

He snuck a glance toward Yuffie as she huddled over a piece of paper scribbling something with a single minded intensity. Deciding to leave her to her own devices, Reeve leaned back in the worn but comfy wooden chair and glanced around the room. It hadn't changed much over the years. The tables scattered around for customers to enjoy a meal were perhaps older and a little more scared on the surface, but each bore a shiny sheen, evidence of being scrubbed ruthlessly clean on a regular basis. The bar still stood, its chairs lined neatly in an even row, waiting for someone to walk through the cheerfully decorated door, and ring the chimes hanging from the ceiling. Behind the bar, glasses hung, and a shelf displayed the house spirits, their contents both dark and light. It was comfortable in its sameness. Though there were new touches here and there that had accumulated since his last visit. A bottle of flowers here, a colorful knick-knack there, what surprised him the most was the amount of photo frames littered behind the bar. Denzel and Cloud Fishing. Barret strong arming the stubbornly scowling teenager into a head lock/hug with his little girl sat happily on his wide knee, Tifa and Cloud up on the roof doing repairs. Marlene and Denzel at various stages of their childhood grinning happily into the camera, together, single shots and sometimes with Cloud and/or Tifa, Cloud sitting at the bar sleeping with his head resting on his arms while a young Marlene giggled as Denzel drew swirls on his cheek, and Tifa making flower chains for everyone's hair. There were dozens more, and in most of them, Cloud was found. Reeve felt his heart warm at how peaceful they all looked. It was great that Cloud had kept his promise to hang around home more. Good for you, Tifa, he thought with a gentle smile.

As if his thoughts summoned her, Tifa breezed in from the kitchen with a food laden tray, her red ballet flats treading lightly on the worn wooden floor. In contrast to the younger occupants of 7th Heaven who'd grown like weeds, Tifa hadn't changed much. Her hair was perhaps a bit longer and she'd developed a habit of wearing it up out of her face and off her neck but it remained as jet black as always. She'd long ago traded in her black leather vest and dragging apron for soft jeans and blousy sweater combos. Comfort rather than battle ready. There were laugh lines at the corners of her eyes, and because of a slight accident a couple of years ago she had a slight limp but little else about her had changed. She still, and perhaps always would, wore a red ribbon tied around her left upper arm. Her serious black eyes could still bore straight through to your soul and her temper ran just as hot when provoked.

Tifa remained as steadfast as always.

Trying to lighten the mood she set the tray down with a grin, "I hope you guys are hungry! Cloud says I always make enough for an army."

Yuffie grunted but remained bent over the piece of paper she'd been fiddling with over the last hour. Reeve lit up visibly at the site of food, "You're an angel, Tifa. It's been days since we've eaten a decent meal."

Tifa scoffed at the compliment but answered looking pleased nonetheless, "Thanks. I hope it tastes okay."

Reeve took a bite and wasn't ashamed to admit nearly melted on the spot at the heavenly warmth that filled his mouth, "It's wonderful."

Tifa looked doubtful, "Really? Our produce hasn't been fairing well due to weather conditions, so I know it's not much. Luckily, it's off season so the only people I've had to feed lately are this bunch. Denzel always eats in silence, Cloud says anything's good, and Marlene's too nice to say if it tastes bad, so you need to be honest!"

Reeve laughed as Tifa gave him the evil eye, "Rest assured we've been on the road so long that we're grateful for anything you have to offer."

She gave him a droll stare, "That's not exactly a compliment...in fact I feel like it's the opposite." Waving off any apology the sheepish man might offer, Tifa plopped down on the chair next to him, "So...Any word?" the teasing went out of her tone in the face of her worry. There was no doubt as to what she was asking.

Reeve sighed and shook his head, "None I'm afraid. Except-" Resting his elbows on the table he began filling her in on what they'd found in the mountain range. When he got to the part where they'd discovered the cell phone, Tifa paled a bit but otherwise her expression didn't change. It didn't really tell them anything except that he'd been there and when. It didn't indicate which direction he'd gone, nor from which direction he'd come from. Finally Reeve got to the ending point, "The amount of blood was a bit troubling, so worst case-"

"He's not dead."

Tifa and Reeve looked over at Yuffie's big brown eyes that looked determined but suspiciously wet. Her face was a bit pink from over exposure to the sun, and there were deep shadows under her eyes from lack of sleep. Reeve looked away feeling guilty while Tifa smiled brightly, "Of course he isn't. And like you pointed out, there's no proof that any of the blood was human!"

Though Tifa's voice was optimistic, in her heart she held doubt. Vincent was strong there was no doubt of that, but from Reeve's reports the number of beasts in that clearing had been vast. Even Vincent might have fallen under so many. They all had their limits... Had their friend found his? A chill ran down her spine as she turned to meet Reeves dark sad eyes. The prospects were beginning to look a little grim. Yuffie went back to her paper, and the three of them sat in silence before Reeve cleared his throat awkwardly, "After we left the mountains we decided to head off this way in hopes that...that he might have come this direction after the battle?"

Tifa shook her head, voice gentle, "I'm afraid not. At least not while we were home." her eyes looked sad "He's as bad as Cloud at answering his phone, and now he's become as bad as him at losing it as well it seems." Reeve smiled faintly at the attempt at humor. It'd been over a month since they'd heard from the man. But they at least now had evidence that he'd been on this part of the continent in the last couple of weeks. Sadly he could still be anywhere but...they now had a place to start.

"FINISHED!" Suddenly Yuffie jumped up and the two broke out of their serious contemplation to stare up at the spunky young woman. She waved a piece of paper wildly through the air. Reeve and Tifa both stared at her in confusion.

"Finished what exactly?" Tifa was the first to venture for clarification. Reeve stared at the paper with a fair amount of wariness. With a triumphant rather smug smile Yuffie slapped her palm on the table and leaned toward them dramatically, "One of the main problems with the search is that we only had a verbal description of Vinnie. Now thanks to my brilliant artwork," Yuffie thumped her chest proudly, "Alls we have to do is show them this cutting out time in half!" to emphasize her words, Yuffie once more waved her newly completed flier.

"Oh? I didn't know you could draw, Yuffie." Sitting forward with un-hidden curiosity Reeve tried to glimpse the picture.

This time it was the dark haired bartender who looked skeptical. She'd seen one too many of Yuffie's harebrained schemes to get overly excited.

Grinning like the cat that drank the cream, Yuffie thrust her artistic masterpiece forward for their perusal. Reeve's jaw dropped open comically while Tifa placed a hand to her mouth. Both were utterly speechless. There was a long moment of pause before either could speak. "Its...ah...what...is it exactly?" Tifa floundered for the right words, while clearing his throat Reeve endeavored to regain his composure. Yuffie looked at her drawing then back at them with a confounded expression, "What do you mean what? It's Vinnie!"

Reeve's shoulders began to shake with mirth as he turned watery eyes away from the 'portrait'.

Tifa stared utterly flabbergasted. What part of it looked like him? "It's...I'm sure that it'll definitely...um lend a...a certain something to the search." Knowing Yuffie's feelings could easily become wounded Tifa tried her best to smile and sound positive.

Reeve snickered until Tifa mercilessly slammed the heel of her foot on his toes underneath the cover of the table. He hissed silently, the tears in his eyes now for an entirely different reason. He should have known better. Didn't Cloud always warn people that Tifa's overly sweet nature hid a temper forged in the fires of Ifrit's cavern?

On cue the 7th Heaven's door swung open Cloud ambled through with Marlene clinging to his back like a gangly monkey and Denzel at his side with several duffle bags.

"Cloud!" Standing quickly with a grin of welcome, Tifa left the suffering Reeve with his bruised toes and a confused Yuffie behind to help him through the door with his things. Turning from the odd jumbled family chatter in the doorway, Yuffie set her picture down to get a better look, "Is it really that bad?"

Reeve turned to look at the girl before letting out a breath and smiling in a sad portrayal of amusement, "I'm sure Vincent will appriciate it." Yuffie seemed pleased with the answer and beamed happily for the first time in days.

A wide strong hand fell on his shoulder, and Reeve started slightly to find the others had joined them. Turning he looked up at Cloud, and there he found determination. He gazed at the others. Tifa's resilient dark eyes as well as the calmer steady blue of Cloud's, neither wavered. Marlene picked up the roughly skteched photo, and Denzel stood quietly beside her, his arm around her shoulders. They'd help continue the search. Seeing they as well were lending their support, his weary heart felt buffered. Turning back to the man behind him, Reeve nodded at the promise he found in Cloud's gaze and Yuffie beamed when Tifa reached out and in a gesture so like her, covered one of the younger girls hands with her own. She squeezed those strong fingers and Yuffie squeeezed back with a relieved expression.

"We'll find him. No matter what it takes."

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><p><em>TBC...<em>

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><p>Chapter 10! Yay! Quite honestly since this story was supposed to be a one-shot poem format type piece the fact that its run out of my hands this far, is somewhat...surprising? Not quite the word that I need but it'll work for now.<p>

So what do you all think? Do you like this peek into what the rest of the cast has been doing in dear Vincent's absence? Or would you rather I just focus on Rio and Vincent? Your opinion as the reader means a lot to me so please say something of it in the review! If you all like this I might peek into their doings in a future chapter, or if you don't like it I'll endeavor to just focus on our unlikely pair.

As always I self edit, so if there are any horribly embarrassing mistakes, by all means I plead that you point them out so I can do away with them. I wrote this chapter fairly quickly, which makes me more prone to mistakes but I've already scanned it 4 times, so I hope I caught most of the mistakes. No ones perfect right? Haha

Till next chapter!

And as always~

Reviews fuel an Authors love for writing! ; )


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the characters depicted in this story. All rights for the **Final Fantasy** series are reserved by **Square Enix**

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><p><strong>Chapter 11<strong>

_"The mind may forget"_

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><p>I stare groggily at the moon shadowed ceiling for a few moments, slowly brushing aside the mental cobwebs that linger from sleep. Sighing, I run blanket warmed hands over my face, to chase away any lingering tears. Is it sad that waking in such a state is a norm for me? Shifting off the couch, I walk on silent feet, tiptoeing into the kitchen for a glass of water to sooth my bone dry throat. As I pass the bedroom door my feet stop moving, frozen in place as I resist looking toward the object of my fascination. Warmed from sleep, my flesh breaks out in goose flesh as it cools rapidly thanks to the chilly temperature of the room. Clenching my jaw tightly, I resolutely force my feet to move again. I don't bother with any lights, knowing my way through the small flat by heart. Yawning, I pull a glass down and gently start the tap. Carting my drink back toward the couch, I pause as the bedroom door catches my attention once more. It stands slightly ajar, starlight creeping around the crack.<p>

Everyone has bad dreams.

Growing up, every child has heard this from one adult or another. It's a phrase used to soothe children's' overwrought nerves and calm turbulent tear ducts. I myself am more familiar with the entity known as "Nightmare". Young and old, man and woman, no one will go their entire life without at least one. If one wanted to put it into medical terms, they are an unpleasant dream that can cause a strong negative emotional response from the mind, typically fear or horror, but also despair, anxiety and great sadness. The dream may contain situations of danger, discomfort, psychological or physical terror. Sufferers usually awaken in a state of distress and may be unable to return to sleep for a prolonged period of time. Some say that eating before going to sleep, will trigger an increase in the body's metabolism and brain activity, causing a potential stimulus for nightmares. Studies of dreams have estimated that about 75% of dream content or emotions are negative.

It was something my mother used to study extensively in order to find a cure for the night terrors I suffered.

As a child, I'd experienced many different nightmares ranging over a vast range of emotion, so my mother and I knew a lot on the subject.

For instance did you know the words roots? The word mare derives from a mythological demon that torments human beings with frightening dreams. Later the word night was added to differentiate it from a female horse.

Somehow though, statistics aside, I never expected my gunman to suffer from them too.

I don't know what processed me that one night to go into my room. I'd woken from a restless sleep, and just…had a feeling that he needed me- which of course I realize is ridiculous. You can't _feel _someone's need, even if I was so bold as to imply he needed me. I doubt I'd be the person he'd turn to in such a time. In fact I doubt he'd even welcome my worry and care. But that hadn't shaken my feeling and so I'd gotten up off the couch and crept into my room. It was at that moment that I'd made my discovery.

I'm not ashamed to admit I was a little shocked. After all he doesn't seem the type. So calm and aloof, emotions so controlled, if anyone could influence their dreams, it would be him. Actually with just appearances he seemed the type that wouldn't dream at all. But that night, as I'd watched his features twisted so slightly in pain, hair clinging damply to his cheeks, I made the discovery that he is just as human as the rest of us. Just as prone to vulnerability in the darkest hours of the night. Somehow, instead of disillusioning me, I found the fact heartbreakingly endearing; a common trait to link us, no matter how sad.

I'd knelt by the bed and moving slowly so as to not wake him, I'd taken his calloused palm into my own. Slim pale fingers twitched inside my gentle grasp, the muscles in his arm tensed in preparation to fight for their freedom.

But I'd stayed still, holding my breath in hope and eventually when meeting no resistance, he'd relaxed.

Was it egotistical to think my being there helped him? Probably, would be the most likely answer...and I found myself sneaking toward the dark recesses behind the bedroom door.

Remembering how I found him in the midst of his nightmares, makes my heart ache with sympathy even as my cheeks flush remembering how bold it'd been to hold a sleeping stranger's hand. Reflexively my fingers clench around the cool class. Normally it's not an action I'd find myself doing- especially since this particular man has made it clear over and over, that he wishes to maintain a careful distance.

Such liberties felt like an invasion of his space. What had processed me to do such a thing? I couldn't find a viable excuse. Maybe it was because after my mother's death I'd wished for a hand to hold during those rougher nights.

_Stupid why would he need you of all people._

The ever present doubt in my heart whispered in the recesses of my head. My eyes drift closed as my lips tremor. "This is ridiculous," I whisper to myself, turning as if to run from my own thoughts. "I should just go back to sleep."

But that fact that he'd calmed immediately at my touch had been a surprise that remained fact.

Toes frozen against the bare hardwood floor, I wavered once more.

Could he be having more bad dreams? Should I check on him? Torn by natural the natural curiosity I always felt for him, and the voice that said to respect his privacy, I felt myself drawn despite myself to the door. Ear pressed to the wood to determine the state inside, with a now cooled hand I gently push to door inward.

_No turning back. _I swallowed thickly before I resolutely straightened my shoulders. _No one has to know right? _

With a guilty heart I swept into the room, closing the door softly behind me, and with it, my doubts.

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><p><em>TBC...<em>

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><p>So Ive been neglecting my writing for too long now. Has it already been a year? There really arent any excuses for my absence. Life got hectic and I havent been able to come up with anything that feels right for the continuation of this story. So I decided to stop over thinking it and sit down and just write. I know this isnt much, and you all have been so patient and lovely with your reviews that I feel you deserve so much more, but Im a little dried up on inspiration plot wise. BUT! I am not going to abandon this story, so no worries there the progress just might not pick up. My new years resolution is to try and give you guys a little something at least once every other week in 2014.<p>

Happy New Years everyone, and thank you to everyone who sent me such lovely reviews. You made my heart feel warm. Also thank you to the readers who dont review as well. Even if you dont review seeing the counter go up still makes me happy.

With love

Addicted.


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the characters depicted in this story. All rights for the **Final Fantasy** series are reserved by **Square Enix**

Thanks a million to all my readers and the reviewers who are still sticking with me. You all are gorgeous people and inspire me :) A special thanks goes out to** PsychoticKhaotic **for helping stir up my plot bunnies. You really helped out on this one and so this chapter goes to you my dear, however short it may be you helped kick my engine into gear!

Enjoy everyone!

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><p><strong>Chapter XII<strong>

_"...but the heart will remember..."_

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><p>The room was pitch-black save for the shards of light that crept in from the open window.<p>

It seemed odd to me that such a guarded individual would sleep with the window open, and for a moment I was transfixed at the way the sheer curtains glowed and shimmered in the moonlight. The movement from the bed drew my eye. And there he lies, midnight tresses fanning the bedspread glimmering like stands of spider silk. Fingers twitching with desire to run along them, my feet slowly pad across the carpet, holding my breath so as to not disturb the peace or betray my slamming heartbeat. Knees bumping the edge of the mattress I halt at the side of my sleeping prince.

Black circles ring his slanted eyes, made even darker by the pale pallor of his skin as he breathed raggedly in slumber. I reach out, wanting to brush his damp bangs from his forehead but at the last second my fingers flinch back as his face turns toward the window, moonlight bringing the beads of sweat on his cheeks to attention. Eyes softening with sympathy, knees bend and I slowly lower myself to floor. Elbows dig into the mattress imprinting the covers with their weight as my cold fingers seek his that lay prone at his side above the covers.

Despite his feverish appearance his hand and fingers were icy to the touch but after a few moments holding them in mine, they quickly warmed. Glancing up at his averted features I waited to see if anything changed.

How long has it been since I walked into the room? I no longer could tell. Time ceased to matter in my small darkened bedroom. In the silence as I held that hand, its warmth and mine radiating to create a feeling of contentment in my chest. I couldn't find the will to take my eyes away from those proud features. His jaw flexed before his lips went slack parting just slightly letting a sigh escape.

"Lucretia…" His deep voice startles me, not only from the suddenness in breaking the trance like silence but from the amount of regret and grief in the one word.

My heart sped up as wide eyed I watched his features contort. It seems tonight my presence isn't helping. Is he beyond my reach even now?

I drew my hand away as I noticed the sky outside the window begin to lighten, and with a soundless sigh of regret I slowly began to move. Sharp needle like pains shot through my legs. Gritting my teeth I rested my forehead against the covers working up the will to force myself to my feet. Padding softly across the room I pause at the door but resist looking over my shoulder. Lifting my hand I clench it and press it close to my heart as if that way I could lock in his heat.

Swallowing I leave the room without glancing back, missing the flutter of lashes and the red that watched me go.

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><p>"And he hasn't talked to you since?" Maggie asked her big blue eyes round and attentive as her expression seemed troubled.<p>

She'd taken my showing up on her doorstep this morning in stride. One look at my tangled of reddish brown hair framing bloodshot eyes and Maggie had opened her door wide and ushered me inside tittering and fussing. She'd quickly showed me to a chair and I'd kicked off my sneakers and snuggled into the warm depths.

I shake my head sadly. "Not a single word. At least he's still eating...but...I don't know what I should do..."

After pacing a hole in my apartment's floorboards, trying to tell myself I wasn't a creepy stalker for watching the mysterious Gunman sleep, I'd finally escaped outside, needing the cold snappy morning air to clear my head. Sadly it hadn't worked, and after an hour wandering the street in worn sneakers and a jacket over my pajamas like a crazy woman, I'd finally found myself in front of the bakery.

Since then I'd spilt my guts over the entire fiasco with my red clad stranger. From the argument we'd had ending with an order not to approach him, to my midnight visits and his nightmares.

Sitting in Maggie's living room with a mug of hot chocolate in my hand I stare glumly into steamy depths. Maggie although very new was my only friend other than my burly veteran boss and a 10 year old kid. Sure I'd had a few friends I played with growing up, doesn't everyone? But we'd lost contact over the years or they'd moved away. My shoulders sag. When you actually stop and think about the lack of human interaction in my life suddenly it becomes clear how very narrow and lonely it really is. Depressed I sink further down into my chair fully wishing I could become one with the worn pastel sofa cushions and disappear.

Maggie hummed thoughtfully and tugged at one stand of her dark blond hair. She'd trimmed it since I last seen her so now the bouncy curls fell to just brush her shoulders. I smiled weakly as I thought that almost everything about her was bouncy.

"This young man of yours doesn't seem like a very easy individual to deal with..."

I smiled wanly. "He's not so bad…just…" I trailed off not knowing what else to say. What could I say? I barely know the man.

Seeing me sink farther into the cushions, Maggie pursed her lips before sipping her own steaming mug. "Lucretia is a woman's name and from the sounds of it this Lucretia person was most likely a very important person…Maybe an old lover? People with broken hearts are sometimes harder to handle."

Was she a lover? Somehow, I wasn't eager to think of him in regards to another woman.

Is this what they call jealousy I wonder?

How ridiculous. I had no holds on the guy. We're not even friends.

Somehow that just depressed me even further.

Maggie suddenly burst out laughing. "Oh sweetheart your face is an open book. Maybe you should try talking to your young man one more time, yeah?"

"He's not mine…"

This seemed amuse the blonde into peels of louder hilarity. "That's what all couples say that the start, besides like I just stated your face says it all." She winks at me as my mouth hung open, "Now why don't you come into the kitchen and help me set up for the morning customers? You'd be surprised at how well kneading dough helps the mind work through its problems.

Grumbling I took my now empty mug into the kitchen with me but on the inside my heart felt a lot lighter. Maggie was right, if I just talked to him about it and made sure that we understood each other then it might work out. Maybe I'd even work up the courage to slowly start telling him about what happened all those years ago.

The kitchen was wide and muggy from the already heated ovens, immediately warming the parts of my frozen body that the cocoa hadn't already reached. I didn't know whether to take my coat off or just melt from happiness. Already I could feel the base of my neck growing damp under the heavy weight of my hair.

"Is it always this warm in here?"

Maggie laughs, as always good natured as she hands me and apron and kerchief to wear over my clothes and hair. "You should visit in summer sometime. It's to die for in here."

Smiling a bit nervously as he winks in my direction, I try not to think about the mental image that joke painted in my mind. No morning visits in summertime, check.

Over the next hour or Maggie and I worked in comfortable silence, the only words spoken, when her gentle bakers hands would correct the way I held the whisk or when she's quietly give me my next task. I could feel the tension in my shoulders loosening bit by bit, a smile pulling at my lip as I stood in this tiny yet efficient kitchen elbow deep in flour and dough.

How relaxing it must be to do this every morning like clockwork. Up before the sun, gentle movements and soothing warmth. It's a possibility that I was romanticizing the situation since it wasn't my everyday routine, but quite honestly I was charmed by the entire process. Maybe I should take up baking once a week, I ponder my smile growing.

It seemed today wouldn't be such a bad day after all.

If only that time could have lasted.

"All done! Leave those too rise, I'll bake those up for the lunch rush. The morning batch is fresh out of the oven and ready to go out for opening." Maggie's voice broke into my idle plans of lazy Sunday baking. Blinking in surprise I look at the clock and realize I'd already wiled away two hours in the cozy bakery.

Blushing both in slight embarrassment at imposing so long as well as pleasure that Maggie honestly didn't mind, I helped transfer steaming bread into baskets to move out onto the floor.

Our eye met and we started to laugh, noticing how flour was smeared across our faces and despite covering it was in our hair as well.

"You're quite the site you know." Maggie chuckled swiping at her own cheek with a wink. I grinned and opened my mouth to banter back only to freeze when a loud bang sounded from outside.

A chill ran down my spine.

As Maggie blinked and jogged to the window to see what was going on, already my heart was in my throat.

Don't go over there, my mind screamed. Don't look.

Still covered in flour, my feet feeling like lead I followed my friend.

Maggie's shriek like gasp sounded far off even before her hands covered her lips to muffle the sound. My head swam as I stood frozen eyes wide, pale face reflected in the glass as my nightmares became a reality before my very eyes.

_"Maybe you should try talking to your young man one more time, yeah?"_

And yet I never made it home.

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><p><em>TBC...<em>

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><p>So...anyone wanna kill me yet? XD<p>

Cliffie~! Lovely lovely cliffie. I like cliffies dont you? :9 Sorry Im sick and delirious. Which is why you guys actually get a post. I begged my boss to let me rest. So what do I do? I get bored of sleeping and write fanfiction XD Im a bad patient...

Hope you enjoyed! :)

And as always **_Reviews fuel an Authors love for writing ;) _**


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer**: I do not own any of the characters depicted in this story. All rights to the **Final Fantasy **series are reserved by **Square Enix**

For those of you who sent all those reviews and well wishes... I heart you so much. Now on with the show, you've all waited long enough. ;)

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><p><strong>Chapter XIII<strong>

"_...even as reality and nightmares collide and blur…"_

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><p>Time is something that humans have deliberated over for centuries. There are documents, and papers, and graphs, all trying to break down and understand it; to grasp it. Some believe that it happens in segment of past, present, and future. Some believe that time does not in fact even exist. Which would you prefer? I'm not sure what I believe. My mind has always been a wreck. I think I believe in time, and yet if the theories are true, then the science of it states that Time is an entity that never stops. It is forever. The ticking clock goes on. Back and forth a pendulum swings, counting down the seconds in an infernal little box hanging from the wall we humans made to measure something infinite. It gives off a sound that slowly seems to seep into your brain until you can feel every moment slip by with the beat of your heart.<p>

The gunshot is still echoing through the air, an electric sound of terror. Through the haze of shock and the thick glass pane separating me from the outside, I can almost feel the sulfuric scent of discharged gunpowder burning my nose. The scene outside wavers and distorts as tears began to gather. No sound leaves my lips as they go slack trying to release the air trapped in my throat. Maggie isn't here. She's gone and all that stands in this space is myself and the hellish sound of gunfire…or is that the slamming of my heartbeat? Shaking my fingers seems to float up the cup the sides of my head, as if they could stop my heart from beating out of my eardrums. Possibly just to stop the long bangs and distorted sound of far off panic from beating my brain.

Maybe it's only some ditch effort to hold my sanity in place.

A sob struggles around the lump in my throat as my shoulders hunch forward, and yet I still can't gain control of my legs.

Dear God, someone help me…!

Then the distortion clears a bit as gravity claims a few tears. Just long enough for me to lock eyes with a towering monster reflected in the glass; a monster with eyes like carmine fire. It's about my height, its shoulders disjointed, and some limbs, just hanging off its frame broken. The skin is puckered and raw with deep scars- A Frankenstein fairy-tale from the continent gone wrong. Yes…this creature is wrong.

Wrong, my mind screams. All wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, WRONG! Those eyes aren't yours, my heart cries! You shouldn't have those eyes. Hatred is an emotion that doesn't belong in that deep sorrowful color. A color that are windows to a soul scented like rain. Its lips twist and it opens its jaws, and though no sound breaches my ears, I can feel the vibrations of its enraged roar as it slowly limps toward the window.

In this moment I feel one with time, something some don't even believe exist. Maybe I don't believe in it either. For if it is in fact non stop…why did everything freeze? Falling deep into a void that makes your hands shake and though the world moves on, you're frozen, in that one second as dread steals your breath. I never expected to feel this way again. The first time is a blurry mist long ago locked in the recesses of a long shut down and shadowed mind, broken if you will, with a gap so wide the shattered piece have disappeared from my memory.

Inaccessible…or so the doctors claim.

Yet in that single moment that time froze, I felt the shattered piece fly back and collide with what was left behind. The pain… is something that defined the human language. The screams echoed somewhere underwater. They rippled the sound coming clearer before shutting off again, like someone put a lid over the sound. Somewhere, in a small part of me left conscious, I know that agonizing sound had come from me. My feet are like lead. Bones, muscle tissue, and veins replaced with sand instead of blood. Rainbow shards glittered as they fragmented and then burst towards us. I didn't have the strength to shield my face. I flinched as some sliced my cheek, glittering all the while with rainbows and flecks of blood.

A hysterical smile twists my lips, "How beautiful…"

Then there's nothing between me and this grotesque being. It smiles back at me, its teeth serrated and hungry, before it leaps at me. My hands fly to ward it off to no effect. Finally my feet move as they fly out from under me as I succumb to its weight.

Then blissfully everything goes black.

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><p>"<em>Vincent…."<em>

Dark lashes fluttered against porcelain skin in response to the gentle cadence of her voice fading in and out of gentle dreams.

"…_.please….Vincent…"_

For a moment he was caught between slumber and consciousness, drifting groggily as he tried to deduce dream from reality. However, the weariness of his body dragged him quickly back under and for a few moments he was left undisturbed. As if the voice was too tired to go on.

Sunlight became stronger in the room, as if trying to chase away the shadows. It crept past the windowsill moving its way across the bright pink and yellow checkered blanket covering a man whose feet hung a little off the end of the mattress. All clear signs the room belonged to someone much brighter nature and smaller than he. Yet the stranger slept fitfully. The coo-coo clock on the wall ticked merrily, the only sound besides the gentle inhale and exhale of breath.

"_...danger...save…."_

The lean dark figure stirred once more, his brows furrowed as if in pain as the voice seemed to muster its strength. Vincent turned his head to the side as a frown pulled at his mouth in reaction to the desperation in that sweet voice. .

"_...ak….wak….p…...ke…...u…...w…..up!"_

Half sigh half groan left the strangers lips.

"_VINCENT!"_

Black lashes snapped open to reveal deep crimson eyes. He lay still for a moment, body tense, fingers ready to snap down and grab the weapon strapped safely to his thigh. Senses fully alert it took him a few tense moments to ascertain he was alone in the room. Slowly the tension worked its way out of his muscles, allowing his limbs to sink back into the downy comfort of the mattress beneath him. It'd been years since he'd dreamed of her.

A dream…?

Slowly a hand was raised to rake thick black locks from his forehead.

"No… a warning…. but of what?" His voice was a low smooth timbre in the sunlight bedroom.

He was broken out of his musings by a loud obnoxious pounding at the door. His body tensed up again, programmed by years of being a trained member of the Turk organization as well as his involvement in the many battles along side his comrade in arms against Shinra. He waited a few beats listening hard for the telltale movement of his, for lack of better term, nurse. When no sign of life came from beyond the bedroom, Vincent slowly maneuvered himself into a sitting position.

It was strange. Over the past weeks Vincent had become slightly accustomed to the girls comings and goings. Four days out of seven, she would leave from early morning and be gone till almost dusk. She always came home smelling of stale smoke and liquor yet he knew she didn't smoke and was always sober. He'd concluded from this and the boy that he'd met once or twice that she worked in some sort of establishment on those days.. The other three she spent at home puttering around the apartment, tending his injuries and cleaning or cooking. Whenever leaving she always left him a note or informed him of her departure. He didn't mind her absence per se...but the break in routine worried him. Humans were creatures of habit, and she was very steady in hers. Almost religiously so. The dream was also weighing heavily on his mind.

The pounding started again, drawing a slightly aggravated glare from the lanky gunman.

She'd also never, in all the time he'd been staying there, had a visitor.

Moving to pull his gun as he shifted to his feet, Vincent winced at the throbbing pain it caused his shoulder. Cursing he reached with his other hand. The wound on his side was still tender but tender ribs were easier to favor wielding a gun than an injured shoulder. Jaw tight he took a barely noticeable moment to gain his bearings and adjust to being on his feet. The cold bite of metal against his bare palm felt foreign, unnatural. He felt naked without the layers of leather and cloth to hide every inch of his scarred body.

Soft cotton crew necks, and flannel pants had not been part of his wardrobe for many, many years. At least the familiar weight of his leg holster was the same even if the rest were not.

Limping only slightly, Vincent slowly crept his way towards the door that stood ajar. Pressed himself against the wall with less grace than normal he took deep breaths into his lungs. The pain in his leg was much better than previously but the tendons were still strained and sore. His lips formed a grim line. He had no doubt that if the pounding belonged to a foe, that he would be able to subdue them. Ambidextrous gun handling wasn't a problem, but his slightly lame leg and restricted shoulder movement would be. His side chose that moment to remind him of its rawness in that moment.

More pounding, followed by a muffled demand to open the door once more invaded the silent apartment.

"_Pain means that you're alive, runt."_

The old quote floated to the front of his memory as he slowly eased far enough around the door jab to check the rest of the flat. Dappled sunlight filtered through half shut blinds, abandoned clothes hung over the couch, her purse lay on its side in the entryway as if someone had knocked it over and forgotten to straighten it. There were no signs of the kitchen having been used for breakfast. All pointed to his fellow occupant leaving in a hurry, and had been agitated enough to not clean up after herself or even get dressed. The hairs on the back of his neck further.

The banging changed to a loud thudding noise as if someone tried to kick in the door, followed by cursing when it didn't work. Silently Vincent guided the bedroom door home, and locked it from the inside. Whoever it was at the door had just proven they were not a friend. The flimsy bedroom door wouldn't be much of an obstacle should the front door cave in, but it would buy him a little more time.

Stoically and with the precision of one who was use to infiltration and stealth he assessed the bedroom with a less casual glance.

BANG. Vincent knew the sound of a body colliding with a door when he heard one.

The bed was big enough to fit under and while offering a vantage point of cover, it but would hinder his speed and mobility. Deficient.

BANG.

The bathroom while offering another door, and small space would prevent being snuck up on, was a dead end that could too easily prove fatal. Deficient.

BANG!

He turned his eyes briefly to the ceiling. While there did seem to be a small crawl space above the room with his injured shoulder it was unlikely he'd make it up there without worsening the condition. Deficient.

Which left, either the window or the door he'd just locked. A loud snap sounded from the other room signs that the front door was finally starting to give. He did not think his leg would withstand scaling down the building.

CRASH! The sound from the main room drew a close to Vincent's hurried calculations. It was just as well.

"Hurry up and search the place. The subject must be brought in and assessed. If it does not bare the mark, terminate it. We leave no witnesses."

Vincent's eyes hardened glittering with a dangerous inner fire as he trained the barrel of Cerberus on the door. Vincent felt his temper push towards the surface. The thought was there that they could in fact be referring to himself, especially considering he was known to work for W.R.O. on occasion and was close friends with its CEO. However, the thought of that cold order disclaiming his caretaker as an object as well as to take her life was something that did not sit well with him.

On the other side of the door furniture legs whined as they scraped along the old floorboards. There were snuffling sounds as well as several grunting growls. Slowly the sounds were getting closer and even though his hand tightened on the gun all Vincent could see was Her face.

The concern that night in the rain. Her tenacity and gentleness in treating his injuries, the tears of relief when he woke. The smile, though nervous at first, that had slowly warmed into something genuine as she greeted him every morning.

"All clear. Check the bedroom."

Vincent heard the ruckus die down before they approached the door.

He remembered her in the bedroom in the early hours just that morning. When he'd awoken he'd felt the gentle pressure of her fingers around his moments before she'd rushed from the room. He'd known then that it was because of her that he woke every morning alone but with his hands warm with a phantom touch. How long had she held his hand in the night? How long since he'd been touched in an unguarded moment by another living being?

Instead of discomfort it inspired….something to move in his old broken heart. A feeling of kinship for a strange girl with tangled hair and wide haunted eyes. It was not unlike the way Yuffie and the others had wormed their way past his defenses.

The footsteps stopped, and Vincent's resolve was solidified. He wasn't positive that the men were after him or the girl, but there was one thing that was certain.

The handle turned, his thumb cocked the gun.

These intruders if after either of them, wouldn't be allowed to touch a single hair on her head.

The door slammed inward, and the first shot sped forward with a ferocious roar from Cerberus's barrel.

All hell broke loose.

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><p><em>Tbc...<em>

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><p><span>Quick notes for those of you who need them:<span>

Turks: Organization kinda like a self running military.

W.R.O: Organization founded in FF Dirge of Cerberus, kinda like the red cross actually... (I've mentioned it in previous chapters. Reeve is the CEO)

Cerberus: The name of Vincent's trusty gun.

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><p>Okay so this super late. I am so, so, sorry for that. I cant begin to explain the hell hole that my life suddenly became. I havent even been able to look at my computer let alone write... T^T I hope you all are still with me on this story. Thanks for the continued support and reviews! You have been so very awesome, and it was due to you all i sat down and took the 6 hours to crank this chapter out into the wee morning other stuff be damned for a little while.<p>

Thanks so much.

Addicted.


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